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THE  LIBRARY 

OF 

THE  UNIVERSITY 
OF  CALIFORNIA 

PRESENTED  BY 

PROF.  CHARLES  A.  KOFOID  AND 
MRS.  PRUDENCE  W.  KOFOID 


THE  MIRROR  OF  LIFE, 


08  ©  V  Wl  ©  ©  ID), 


1?    IP 


EPOT1EP 


.  (L.  <D.  ¥  3J  IT  (HI  0  LL, 


IN  FAN C Y 


!'  !!  I  I.  A  I'  K  I.  !'  I 

*  .w  B  &  A'#'  A  .w  Jtd   .T«  x 


THE 


MIRROR  OF  LITE, 


EDITED   BY 


MKS.  L.  C.  TUTHILL. 


"Trust  no  future,  howe'er  pleasant ; 
Let  the  dead  past  "bury  its  dead — 
Act — act  in  the  living  present, 
Heart  -within,  and  God  o'erhead." 

LONGFELLOW. 


PHILADELPHIA: 
LINDSAY  AND  BLAKISTON. 


Entered,  according  to  Act  of  Congress,  in  the  year  1847, 
BY  LINDSAY  AND  BLAKISTON, 

In  the  Clerk's  Office  of  the  District  Court  for  the  Eastern  District  of 
Pennsylvania. 


C.   SHERMAN,    PRINTER, 
19  St.  James  Street. 


PREFACE. 


INTENDED  as  this  volume  is,  to  present  to  the  view  of  its 
readers  the  various  stages  of  life's  progress,  from  the  first 
dawnings  of  infancy  to  old  age,  no  more  appropriate  title 
could  be  selected  than  "  The  Mirror  of  Life"  to  indicate  its 
contents.  The  matter  is  all  original,  and  from  the  pens  of 
favourite  Authors  of  our  own  country.  The  plates  are  from 
pictures  or  designs  by  American  Artists,  never  before  en- 
graveo^^ymvith  one  exception,  were  prepared  expressly  for 
this  \\^r^^Presenting  thus  an  array  of  talent,  in  the  letter 
press  and  the  embellishments,  rarely  to  be  met,  the  publishers 
trust  that  the  public  will  find  this  purely  American  book  well 
deserving  of  patronage. 


ILLUSTRATIONS, 


ENGRAVED  BY 


JOHN  SARTAIN,  PHILADELPHIA, 


BOYHOOD OSGOOD Frontispiece. 

INFANCY SCHMITZ Vignette  Title. 

CHILDHOOD EICHHOLTZ 31 

GIRLHOOD ROSSITER 55 

MAIDENHOOD ROTHERMEL  87 

THE  BRIDE ROSSITER 119 

THE  MOTHER ROSSITER 145 

THE  WIDOW ROSSITER 165 

MANHOOD ROTHERMEL 185 

OLD  AGE ROTHERMEL  236 

THE  SHROUDED  MIRROR REV.  DR.  MORTON 240 


CONTENTS. 


THE  MIRROR  OF  LIFE 13 

THE  INFANT  AND  THE 

SUNBEAM REV.  G.  W.  BETHUNE,  D.  D 15 

THE  CHILDREN  OF  THE 

POOR REV.  CLEMENT  M.  BUTLER 17 

LE  PETIT  SOURD-MUET..MRS.  L.  H.  SIGOURNEY 23 

THE  PETITION MRS.  L.  C.  TUTHILL 26 

GOOD  NIGHT ANONYMOUS 29 

CHILDHOOD MISS  CAROLINE  E.  ROBERTS 30 

BOYHOOD MRS.  FRANCES  S.  OSGOOD 34 

MY  SCHOLARS BUSHROD  BARTLETT,  ESQ 36 

DREAMLAND  MELODY  ....WILLIAM  S.  HARTWELL 51 

BESSIE  NEWTON ALICE  G.  LEE 55 

THE  FROZEN  STAR ARIA..  .  57 


X  CONTENTS. 

COLLEGE  HONOURS THE  EDITOR 58 

THE  INSANE  GIRL FANNIE  OF  FARLEIGH 81 

THE  WHITE  HAND ANONYMOUS 86 

THE  WIDOWER'S  DAUGH 
TER MRS.  L.  C.  TUTHILL 87 

THE  ORPHAN HOPE  HESSELTINE 108 

A    FEMALE    PURSUIT    IN 

ANCIENT  TIMES REV.  GEORGE  E.  ELLIS 113 

HYMN     OF     THE     BLIND 

GIRL ANONYMOUS  118 

THE  BRIDE W 119 

THE  LATHROPS REV.  H.  HASTINGS  WELD 122 

THE   INSPIRATION MRS.  SARAH  J.  HALE 146 

THE  MOTHER'S  DREAM. .MRS.  L.  C.  TUTHILL 148 

THE  DISMAL  YEAR H 153 

EARLY  INFLUENCE MISS  ANNE  W.  MAYLIN 157 

WIDOWHOOD MISS  CATHARINE  M.  SEDGWICK.165 

MANHOOD REV.  M.  A.  DE  WOLFE  HOWE 178 

HUMAN  POWER THOMAS  BUCHANAN  READ 185 

SCENE  IN  A  STUDIO AUTHOR    OF    "WREATHS    AND 

BRANCHES" 187 

THE  MERIDIAN  OF  LIFE.. REV.  WILLIAM  B.  SPRAGUE,  D.D.191 

THE  ANCIENT  MAIDEN..  .ARIA 198 

THE  MOTHER'S  GRAVE. ..MRS.  E.  F.  ELLETT 201 

A   STRONG  MAN    NEVER 
CHANGES  HIS  MENTAL 

CHARACTERISTICS J.  T.  HEADLEY 205 

THE  CHILDLESS  WIDOW. .ELIZABETH 214 

THE  AGED  PENITENT  ....S.  S.  T 217 


CONTENTS.  xi 

HAPPINESS  IN  A  HOVEL. .N 219 

THE  GREAT  ENIGMA REV.  JOHN  WILLIAMS 222 

RETROSPECTION  O.  E.  D 226 

OLD  AGE THE  EDITOR 236 

"  THERE  REMAINETH  A  REST  TO  THE  PEOPLE  OF  GOD.". 240 


THE  MIRKOK  OF  LIFE. 


"  Now,  \ve  see  through  a  glass,  darkly ;— then,  face  to  face." 

1  COR.  xiii.  12. 

I. 

FROM  Mercy  unending 

A  light  is  descending, 
Which  falls  on  the  Mirror  of  Life, 

To  aid  us  in  seeing 

The  end  of  our  being, 
Mid  changes,  and  sorrow,  and  strife. 

II. 

The  spirit  undying, 

While  childhood  is  flying, 
The  joys  of  the  moment  engage ; 

A  bird,  it  is  singing, 

Contentedly  swinging, 
Unconscious  as  yet  of  its  cage. 


]4  THE    MIRROR    OF   LIFE. 

III. 

While  manhood  is  fleeting, 
Impatient  'tis  beating, 

The  strength  of  its  prison  to  prove ; 
In  age  it  is  waiting, 
Till  slowly  the  grating 

The  hand  of  decay  shall  remove. 

IV. 

When  poverty,  scorning, 
And  sickness,  and  mourning, 

In  darkness  the  spirit  enshroud, 
The  heavenly  lightning 
The  shadow  is  brightening, 

And  purity  follows  the  cloud. 

V. 

Temptations  receiving, 
And  conquests  achieving, 

Its  virtue  is  strengthened  each  hour, 
Till  victory  gaining, 
And  glory  obtaining, 

It  triumphs  in  perfected  power. 


THE  INFANT  AND  THE  SUNBEAM. 

BY  THE  REV.    G.    W.    BETHUNE,   D.D. 
"  Of  such  is  the  kingdom  of  Heaven." 

I. 

I  HEARD  a  gentle  murmuring, 

'Twixt  laughter  and  a  tune, 
Or  like  a  full  brook  gurgling 

Through  the  long  grass  in  June. 

II. 

I  traced  the  sound — an  infant  lay 

There  in  his  cradle  bed, 
And  through  the  curtains  shone  a  ray 

Of  sunshine  on  his  head ; 

III. 

It  flashed  from  off  each  golden  tress, 

Like  the  glory  painters  see, 
Round  young  John  in  the  wilderness, 

Or  Christ  on  Mary's  knee. 


16      THE  INFANT  AND  THE  SUNBEAM. 

IV. 

The  child  put  up  his  little  hand, 

He  waved  it  to  and  fro, 
And  words,  I  could  not  understand, 

Seem'd  from  his  lips  to  flow ; 

V. 

Words  in  which  joy  and  love  would  blend, 
As  though  he  thought  the  while, 

The  light  to  be  a  pleasant  friend, 
A  friend  with  a  pleasant  smile. 

VI. 

Thus,  till  the  sunny  ray  grew  dim, 
As  it  passed  the  window-pane, 

He  murmured  on  his  happy  hymn, 
Then  fell  asleep  again. 

VII. 

O  God,  I  thought,  that  I  could  be 
Like  that  meek,  little  child, 

To  greet  thy  Truth  which  shines  on  me, 
With  brow  as  undefiled. 

VIII. 

And  then  with  lips  as  innocent, 
And  heart  as  free  from  guile, 

Sing  of  thy  love  in  glad  content, 
Look  up,  and  see  Thee  smile. 


THE   CHILDREN   OF   THE   POOR. 


BY  THE  REV.  CLEMENT  M.  BUTLER. 


THERE  is  no  class  of  our  fellow-beings  that  ought  to  awaken 
a  deeper  interest  in  our  hearts,  than  the  children  of  the  poor. 

Is  there  anything  so  touchingly  helpless  as  a  poor  child  de 
prived  by  crime  or  misfortune  or  death  of  its  natural  pro 
tector  ?  It  seems  as  it  stands,  sad,  frightened,  and  wondering 
in  its  helplessness,  to  ask,  "  What  am  I  sent  here  for?" 

The  young  of  animals  soon  learn  by  instinct  to  find  their  food 
spread  upon  nature's  table.  But  a  parent's  care  is  to  the  child 
in  the  place  of  instinct,  and  a  parent's  hand  the  source  of  its 
supply.  When  through  poverty  or  crime  or  death,  a  child  is 
deprived  of  such  guardianship,  what  is  so  pitiful,  what  so  help 
less  ?  What  can  it  do  but  stand  up  in  its  rags  and  say,  in  the 
inarticulate  but  expressive  eloquence  of  tears,  "  Here  I  am, 
God's  creature,  left  alone  to  perish.  Will  any  man  take  me 
that  I  die  not  ?"  And  if  none  come,  what  can  the  poor  child 
do  but  lay  its  head  upon  its  dead  mother's  breast,  and  wail 
itself  into  the  sleep  which  has  no  waking  ? 

Sad  as  their  case  is,  yet  in  the  present  disjointed  state  of 
things,  they  subserve  a  high  moral  purpose.  We  owe  much 
to  the  children  of  the  poor.  They  keep  soft  and  tender  the 
hearts  of  humanity.  They  are  sent  into  the  world  poor  and 
suffering,  not  that  they  may  remain  so,  but  that  they  may  be 
released  by  the  prosperous  and  happy,  and  thus  impart  a  bless- 

2* 


18  THE    CHILDREN    OF    THE    POOR. 

ing  as  large  as  they  receive.  What  would  a  human  heart  be 
which  never  had  its  sympathy  awakened !  What  an  unlovely 
thing  would  that  heart  be  which  had  never  felt  another's  pain  ! 
Without  pity,  the  hearts  of  all  would  stiffen  into  cold  and  rigid 
selfishness.  It  is  pity  which 

"  Softens  human  rock- work  into  men." 

Mercy  could  not  live  in  the  human  heart  without  an  object. 
Suffering  has  furnished  occasion  for  the  most  glorious  mani 
festations  of  God,  and  given  birth  to,  and  strengthened,  the 
holiest  sympathies  of  man.  Instead  of  fruitlessly  endeavouring 
to  form  anew  a  world  whence  suffering  shall  be  excluded,  let 
us  rather  endeavour  to  evolve  the  designed  blessing  out  of  the 
permitted  evil.  Well  does  the  wise  and  eloquent  proverbialist 
declare : 

"  Sin  is  an  awful  shadow,  but  it  addeth  new  glories  to  the  light ; 
Sin  is  a  black  foil,  but  it  setteth  off  the  jewelry  of  heaven  ; 
Sin  is  the  traitor  which  hath  dragged  the  majesty  of  mercy  into  action." 

Let  us  remember,  then,  the  children  of  the  poor  have  their 
mission  to  the  world,  and  as  they  come  to  us,  let  not  their 
heavenly  message  be  all  unheeded  and  unheard.  As  we  think 
of  them  with  reference  to  the  duty  which  we  owe  to  them,  let 
us  not  forget  that  they  are  entrusted  with  a  divine  blessing,  to 
be  imparted  in  return  to  us. 

What  is  that  little  neglected  thing  that  is  playing  on  the 
floor,  while  its  mother  toils  with  sinking  heart  for  bare  bread ; 
while  the  father  is  off  on  riot,  or  comes  home  only  to  rob  those 
for  whom  he  should  provide  ?  What  is  it  ?  What  will  it  be 
if  left  there  and  thus  ?  What  might  it  be  if  taken  elsewhere 
and  placed  under  other  influences?  It  is  a  jewel  of  more 
worth  than  the  world  upon  which  it  lives.  It  is  an  immortal 


THECHILDREN    OFTHEPOOR.  jg 

endowed  with  eternal  capabilities.  It  is  capable  of  purity  and 
advancement  under  right  environment;  but  it  has  an  inner 
aptitude  to  evil  which  outer  occasions  call  forth  and  strengthen. 
Yet  even  with  this  aptitude  to  sin,  if  from  the  earliest  years  it 
be  the  object  of  constant  kindness  to  call  forth  its  affections ; 
if  it  be  subjected  to  discipline  and  self-control ;  if  it  be  early 
taught  filial  fear,  reverence  and  love  of  God;  if  it  be  instructed 
in  God's  word  and  will;  if  it  allow  the  spirit  of  God  to  work 
penitence  towards  God  and  faith  in  Jesus  ;  if  it  have  before  it 
constraining  and  winning  examples  of  holiness ;  and  if  it  be 
under  the  descending  dews  of  promised  grace  given  in  answer 
to  believing  prayer;  then  shall  the  soul  of  that  little  one  which, 
neglected,  might  have  become  a  burning  brand  in  the  world  of 
wo,  be  a  glad  and  eternal  light  in  its  father's  home  in  heaven. 
For  the  soul  of  that  child,  open  to  evil,  is  not  inaccessible  to 
good. 

Childhood  has  tender  conscience,  teachableness  of  spirit, 
grateful  feeling.  Recently  from  the  Creator's  hand,  his  im 
press  upon  it  seems  less  effaced  than  it  does  on  elder  hearts. 
Heaven,  which  has  been  said  to  lie  about  us  in  our  infancy, 
has  left  some  of  its  odour  and  its  radiance  lingering  about 
childhood's  heart.  I  know  not  why  it  is,  but  all  of  us  have  at 
times  felt  in  the  presence  of  amiable  and  docile  children  as  if 
a  sweet  sacredness  invested  them ;  as  if  they  had  just  taken 
their  little  heads  from  the  breast  of  Jesus,  when  he  took  them 
in  his  arms  and  blessed  them.  And  when  we  feel  this  charm 
of  childhood  in  the  case  of  those  who  are  destitute  and  forlorn, 
it  is  just  that  attraction  towards  them  which  we  should  obey, 
that  according  to  the  design  of  the  blessed  Saviour  of  the 
world,  "  we  may  do  them  good." 

We  would  that  we  might  cast  on  "  the  Mirror  of  Life"  such 


20  THECHILDRENOFTHEPOOR. 

a  faithful  and  distinct  picture  of  the  children  of  the  poor,  that 
some  readers  would  be  touched  with  the  spectacle,  and  con 
secrate  their  love  and  their  activities  to  their  welfare.  It  is 
among  the  most  blessed — if  it  be  humble — of  all  methods  of 
doing  good.  One  of  its  richest  rewards  is  the  luxury  of  the 
act  itself.  If  you  wish  to  see  a  person  thoroughly  happy,  go 
and  look  on  him  who  is  making  children  happy. 

It  has  been  said,  that  if  a  man  has  no  pleasure  in  children,  and 
children  none  in  him — if  his  face  never  brightens  when  he  sees 
them,  and  his  voice  does  not  soften  into  the  tones  of  affection 
when  he  speaks  to  them,  that  there  is  something  wrong  about 
him,  and  that  he  is  not  to  be  relied  upon  for  anything  good  and 
disinterested.  However  that  may  be,  it  wrill  be  confessed  that  he 
who  cordially  loves  little  children,  is  made  a  happier  and  better 
man  by  converse  with  them.  Often,  indeed,  when  we  see  little 
children  win  to  them  and  make  to  labour  for  their  amusement, 
alike  the  amiable  and  the  harsh,  the  strong-minded  and  the 
weak,  we  seem  to  have  the  prophecy  fulfilled :  "  The  wolf 
also  shall  dwell  with  the  lamb,  and  the  leopard  shall  lie  down 
with  the  kid  and  the  calf,  and  the  young  lion  and  the  fatling 
together,  and  a  little  child  shall  lead  them." 

All  persons  of  kindly  feelings  love  to  give  even  momentary 
pleasure  to  a  child.  But  to  entitle  ourselves  to  their  .lasting  gra 
titude — to  be  the  subject  of  their  daily  grateful  remembrances 
and  of  their  prayers — to  be  conscious  that  we  have  been  the 
honoured  instruments  of  saving  them  from  many  sins  and  sor 
rows,  there  are  few  pleasures  so  elevated — so  sweet — as  this  ! 

Reader, — to  whom  the  bounty  of  Providence  gave  a  happy 
childhood,  and  who  art  now  surrounded  by  the  comforts  and 
blessings  of  a  happy  home, — remember  the  children  of  the 
poor !  Take  the  hungry,  timid,  weeping  little  one  by  the 


THE   CHILDREN    OF  THE  POOR.  gl 

hand.  Provide  for  it,  if  you  can,  a  comfortable  home.  The 
crushed  and  down-pressed  heart  of  childhood  will  rise  and 
expand  again  into  life,  as  the  flower  beaten  down  by  the 
storm  lifts  its  bright  head  again  smilingly  in  the  sunshine,  and 
thank  you  with  its  sweets. 

Do  you  know  much, — you,  who  peruse  these  pages, — do 
you  know  much  of  the  poor  ?  I  do  not  ask  if  you  know  of 
them  as  they  are  depicted  in  the  gilded  annual  or  the  illustrated 
tale  which  lies  upon  your  centre-table  ?  I  mean  the  real  poor 
— those  who  live  in  that  narrow  lane  and  that  neglected  hovel, 
which  you  must  soil  your  shoe  to  reach,  where  you  will  find 
squalor,  dirt,  and  the  dissonance  of  children — in  short,  deep 
poverty,  \vith  all  its  real  and  revolting  accompaniments. 

In  one  of  those  damp  and  dismal  holes,  which  it  is  a  trial  for 
you  even  to  enter,  sits  a  father,  cursing  the  day  that  he  was 
born,  murmuring  at  the  unequal  allotments  of  Providence,  im 
precating  vengeance  for  the  wrongs  of  the  powerful,  the 
wealthy,  and  the  cruel!  His  spirit  is  fierce  and  vindictive,  and 
his  inner  pollution  is  more  frightful  than  his  outward  squalor. 
When  he  was  a  poor  child,  he  might  have  been  taken  by  the 
hand  and  trained  up  to  a  life  of  usefulness  and  happiness. 

There  is  another,  who  has  struggled  bravely  against  the 
waves  of  poverty,  but  sickness  has  unnerved  his  arm,  and  he  is 
borne  down;  he  is  endeavouring  to  silence  in  his  heart  the  com 
plainings  of  discontent  and  the  denunciations  of  bitterness,  and 
to  lift  to  the  Chastener  an  eye  of  gratitude  and  submission, 
though  it  be  suffused  with  tears. 

There  again  is  the  mother,  who,  pausing  from  the  toil  that 
has  killed  her,  to  die,  fixes  her  eye  on  her  wondering  and 
weeping  little  one,  and,  as  she  consigns  it  to  God, 

"  Gives  the  sad  presage  of  its  future  years, 
The  child  of  misery,  baptized  with  teajrs." 


22  THE    CHILDREN    OFTHE    POOR. 

And  again,  in  the  silence  of  the  night,  a  voice  of  complain 
ing  children  is  heard,  waking  to  weep,  crying  from  cold  or 
hunger,  or  moaning  in  their  sleep — living  over  again  in  dreams 
the  sad  life  of  their  waking  hours.  It  is  an  awful  thing,  that 
such  things  should  be  in  the  midst  of  those  who  have  bread 
enough  and  to  spare  ! 

Reader !  repay  to  the  children  of  the  poor  something  for  the 
happiness  which  they  have  imparted  to  you.  Remember,  that 
when  God  maketh  inquisition  for  blood,  he  remembereth  them. 
And  remember  also  that  the  Saviour  will  say,  at  the  last  great 
day,  to  those  who  have  loved  and  blessed  his  poor,  "  Inasmuch 
as  ye  have  done  it  unto  the  least  of  these,  my  brethren,  ye 
have  done  it  unto  me  !" 


LE   PETIT   SOURD-MUET. 

BY  MRS.  L.  H.  SIGOURNEY. 
I. 

CHILD  of  the  speaking  eye, — 
Child  of  the  voiceless  tongue, — 

Around  whose  unresponsive  ear 
No  harp  of  earth  is  rung, — 

II. 

There's  one,  whose  nursing  care 
Relax'd  not, — night  or  day, — 

Yet  ne'er  hath  heard  thy  lisping  word 
Her  tenderness  repay, — 

III. 

Though  anxiously  she  strove 
Each  uncouth  tone  to  frame, 

Still  vainly  listening  through  her  tears, 
To  catch  a  Mother's  name. 


24  LE    PETIT    SOUR  D-MUET. 

IV. 

Child  of  the  fetter'd  ear,— 

Whose  hermit  mind  must  dwell 

Mid  all  the  harmonies  of  earth, 
Lone,  in  its  silent  cell, — 

V. 

Fair,  budding  thoughts  are  thine, — 
With  sweet  affection's  wave, — 

And  whispering  angels  bless  thy  dreams 
With  minstrelsy  of  love  ; — 

VI. 

I  knew  it, — by  the  smile 

That  o'er  thy  peaceful  sleep, 

Glides,  like  the  rosy  beam  of  morn, 
To  tint  the  misty  deep. 

VII. 

Child  of  the  pensive  brow, 
Search  for  those  jewels  rare, 

That  glow  in  Heaven's  withholding  hand, 
To  cheer  thy  lot  of  care. 

VIII. 

Hermetically  seal'd 

To  sounds  of  wo  and  crime, 

That  vex,  and  stain  the  pilgrim  soul 
Amid  the  toils  of  time, — 


LE   PETIT   SOUR  D-MUET.  35 

IX. 

By  discipline  made  wise, 

Pass  patient  on  thy  way, 
And  when  rich  music  loads  the  air, 

Bow  down  thy  head, — and  pray. 


Child  of  immortal  hope, — 

Still  many  a  gift  is  thine, 
The  untold  treasures  of  the  heart, 

The  gems  from  learning's  mine, — 

XL 

And  what  ecstatic  joy, 

The  thrilling  lip  shall  prove, 

That  first  its  life-long  chain  shall  burst 
In  a  pure  realm  of  love ; 

XII. 

What  rapture  for  the  ear, 
When  its  stern  seal  is  riven, 

To  drink  its  first,  baptismal  sound 
From  the  full  choir  of  heaven. 


THE    PETITION. 

BY  MRS.  L.  C.  TUTHILL. 

"  I  am  unworthy,  yet,  for  their  dear  sake, 

I  ask,  whose  roots  planted  in  me  are  found; 

For  precious  vines  are  propp'd  by  rudest  stake, 

And  heavenly  roses  fed  in  darkest  ground. 

"  Beneath  my  leaves,  though  early  fallen  and  faded, 

Young  plants  are  wanned,— they  drink  my  branches'  dew  : 
Let  them  not,  Lord,  by  me  be  upas-shaded  : 
Make  me,  for  their  sake,  firm,  and  pure,  and  true." 

J.  F.  CLARKE. 

"  THERE  comes  father  !  What  shall  we  do  ?"  exclaimed 
Lucy  Norrie,  a  bright,  fair-haired  girl,  to  her  little  brother  and 
sister.  "  Do  you  not  hear  him  ?  He  is  almost  on  the  last 
stair.  Walter,  dear,  hide  under  that  sofa  in  the  corner ; 
Maggie,  come  with  me  behind  this  curtain." 

The  boy  had  scarcely  crept  into  his  hiding-place,  and  the 
rich  folds  of  the  drapery  of  the  window  were  still  rustling, 
when  the  father  walked  into  the  parlour,  which  had  just  been 
brilliantly  lighted  for  the  evening. 

And  why  should  those  little  ones  conceal  themselves  from 
that  handsome  young  father  ?  The  elegance  of  his  dress,  and 
his  air,  proclaim  him  a  man  of  fashion ;  the  splendid  apart 
ment,  into  which  his  entrance  has  caused  such  commotion, 
bespeaks  the  wealth  of  the  owner. 


THE   PETITION.  27 

He  is  a  married  roue ! — A  dissipated  father  ! 

He  walks  up  to  the  magnificent  pier-glass,  and  after  looking 
at  himself  for  a  moment,  exclaims,  with  an  oath,  "  Sober  !" 

A  strange  thing,  indeed,  for  Walter  Norrie  to  return  home 
from  a  dinner  party  sober.  The  fact  could  be  accounted  for 
only  in  one  way  :  he  had  dined  with  a  friend  who,  for  the  first 
time,  had  banished  wine  and  strong  drinks  from  his  dinner- 
table. 

Poor  little  Walter  sobbed  aloud  in  his  corner  under  the  sofa. 
The  father  heard  the  noise  and,  perceiving  the  shaking  of  one 
of  the  curtains,  wrcnt  softly  towards  the  window  and  gently 
lifted  the  drapery. 

There  knelt  his  two  little  girls,  with  their  faces  to  the  wall, 
their  hands  clasped,  and  their  eyes  closed. 

"  O  God,  pity  my  poor  father,  and  make  him  a  good  man," 
earnestly  whispered  the  elder  girl,  little  Lucy. 

Walter  Norrie,  that  arrow,  from  the  quiver  of  the  Almighty, 
has  found  a  crevice  in  the  armour  \vith  which  vice  has  guarded 
thy  soul. 

The  curtain  was  noiselessly  dropped;  the  sobbing  increased. 
The  astonished  father  stooped,  and  under  the  sofa  saw  his  only 
boy — his  little  namesake. 

"  Why,  Wattie,  what  is  the  matter  ?  Come  out  here,  my 
boy  ;  are  you  playing  hide  and  seek  ?" 

The  little  fellow  cautiously  crept  from  his  hiding-place,  re 
garding  his  father  with  a  terrified  air. 

"  Do  not  be  frightened,  boy.  Why  did  you  hide  under  the 
sofa  ?" 

"  Because  we  heard  you  coming  ;"  lisped  the  boy. 

"  And  why  was  my  son  afraid  of  his  dear  papa  ?" 

"  I  am  not  afraid  of  dear  papa,"   said  the  boy,  smiling 


28  THE   PETITION. 

joyously  through  his  tears,  "  but  I  thought  it  was  that  naughty 
papa,  who  strikes  Wattie  sometimes." 

Lucy  and  Maggie  now  stole  cautiously  from  their  retreat, 
and,  as  if  to  protect  their  little  brother,  placed  themselves  one 
on  either  side  of  him,  taking  his  plump,  dimpled  hands  in 
theirs. 

"Mamma  has  gone  to  church  with  Aunt.  Mary,"  said  Lucy, 
in  a  deprecating  tone.  "  She  told  us  we  might  play  an  hour 
in  the  parlour  before  we  went  to  bed." 

"  Well,  I  will  not  interrupt  you.  What  were  you  playing, 
Lucy?"  inquired  the  father,  with  a  pleasant  smile  upon  his 
handsome  features. 

Lucy  made  no  answer. 

The  father  seated  himself,  and  appeared  a  little  impatient. 

"  I  will  tell  you,  papa,"  said  Maggie  :  "  Lucy  was  the 
mother,  and  Wattie  was  her  little  boy ;  she  was  sick  and  very 
sorrowful,  and  cried  a  great  deal ;  I  played  I  was  the  doctor, 
who  had  come  to  see  her.  I  just  put  on  Wattie's  little  coat 
and  cap,  as  you  see,  papa.  I  hope  it  don't  displease  you  ;  we 
were  only  in  fun,  you  know." 

The  father  smiled  at  the  droll  appearance  of  his  little  girl, 
and  said,  encouragingly, 

"  And  why  was  Lucy  so  sick  and  sorrowful  ?" 

"  Because,  she  played,  she  had  a  very  bad,  wicked  husband, 
who  drank  naughty,  hateful  brandy,  that  made  him  crazy." 

Here  Lucy  burst  into  an  agony  of  tears. 

"  Well,  children,  you  may  go  to  bed  now,"  said  Walter 
Norrie  ;  "  come  and  kiss  your  poor  father." 

Little  Wattie  sprang  to  his  father's  arms  and  gave  him  a 
hearty  kiss.  Maggie  followed  his  example,  but  Lucy  stood 
abashed  and  irresolute. 


THE   PETITION.  39 

"  And  Lucy,  have  you  not  a  kiss,  too,  for  your  father  ?" 

Years  had  passed  since  these  children  had  received  the 
sweet  goodnight-kiss  from  their  father. 

Lucy  threw  her  arms  around  his  neck  and  sobbed  aloud 
upon  his  bosom.  Tears  dropped  from  the  eyes  of  Walter 
Norrie  upon  the  fair  forehead  of  his  child,  as  he  whispered  in 
her  ear, 

"  Yes,  Lucy,  pray  for  your  sinful  father.     Good  night." 

Long  after  the  children  were  sleeping,  the  wretched  father 
paced  that  splendid  apartment.  Conscience  was  wrestling 
with  his  heart.  The  man  had  begun,  through  the  grace  of 
God,  "  to  work  out  his  salvation  with  fear  and  trembling." 

He  knelt  in  the  place  hallowed  by  the  holy  breathings  of  his 
child,  and  there  vowed  a  solemn  vow,  over  which  angels  in 
Heaven  rejoiced. 

That  vow  was  faithfully  kept,  and  Walter  Norrie  is  now  a 
Christian  father. 


GOOD-NIGHT. 

A  NOISY  band  from  "  nursey  V  hand, 

They  come  to  bid  good-night ; 
No  painter  bold,  on  canvass  old, 

Has  sketched  a  fairer  sight. 
Their  bath  has  shed  the  roses  red 

Upon  their  dimpled  cheeks, 
But  on  their  tops  the  limpid  drops 

Have  played  the  strangest  freaks  ; 
The  stiflest  hair  has  changed  its  air, 

To  order  now  reclaimed, 
And  silken  curls,  like  naughty  girls, 

Look  sheepish  and  ashamed. 
Their  simple  slips  with  graceful  dips 

Have  left  their  shoulders  bare, 
And  plainly  show,  from  knee  to  toe, 

How  round  and  white  they  are. 
Then  lowly  stoop  the  little  group, 

And  fold  their  hands  with  care  ; 
With  lifted  eyes  and  earnest  guise, 

They  lisp  their  evening  prayer. 
The  kiss  goes  round — good-nights  resound- 

They  flit,  like  things  of  air. 


0  1L  10)  IHl  CO)  (U)  [D) . 


CHILDHOOD. 

BY  MISS  CAROLINE  E.  ROBERTS. 
I. 

THE  smiles  of  blessed  childhood, — 

How  much  of  joy  they  tell, — 
Gushing  unbidden,  warm  and  free, 

From  out  the  heart's  glad  well. 
Telling  of  fountains  filPd  with  joy, 

Of  pleasures  new  and  fair — 
Scattering  their  cheerful  influence 

Like  sunbeams,  everywhere. 

II. 

The  tears  of  April  childhood, 

Which  glisten  as  they  rise, 
Reflecting  back,  in  rainbow  hues, 

Bright  colours  from  the  skies. 
For  clouds  pass  lightly  o'er  the  heart, 

Like  shadows  o'er  a  lake, 
So  grief  upon  the  guileless  soul 

Can  no  sad  impress  make. 


32  CHILDHOOD. 

III. 

The  sports  of  merry  childhood — 

The  joyous  laugh  and  bound, 
The  gladsome  shout  that  fills  the  air, 

And  echoes  round  and  round. 
The  healthful  sport — the  quiet  games, 

The  rambles  far  and  wide, 
For  flowers  in  summer,  or  the  tale 

By  winter's  blithe  fireside. 

IV. 

The  sleep  of  sunny  childhood- 
How  kindly  doth  it  come, 

Rest  for  the  child,  as  for  the  flowers, 

.    When  summer  day  is  done. 

In  fairy  land  of  pleasant  dreams, 
Roameth  the  sleeper  dear, 

And  smiles  light  up  the  silent  face 
As  angels  whisper  near. 

V. 

The  prayer  of  trusting  childhood, — 

That  simple,  earnest  faith, 
Which  yieldeth  to  a  Father's  love 

The  care  of  all  it  hath. 
Which  asketh  and  receiveth, 

Because  no  doubts  arise, 
But  what  its  simple  wishes  reach 

"  Our  Father"  in  the  skies. 


CHILDHOOD.  33 

VI. 

The  death  of  happy  childhood, — 

While  day  has  but  begun, 
To  see  the  glorious  rising 

Of  another  brighter  sun. 
To  pass  away,  ere  sorrow  comes 

With  her  chill,  with'ring  hand — 
Fresh  as  from  God — to  pass  away 

Into  the  better  land. 

VII. 

The  graves  of  peaceful  childhood, — 

Grass-grown  and  fair  to  see, 
Watched  by  affection's  loving  eye, 

And  guarded  carefully. 
At  eventide  the  daisies  sleep 

Upon  the  quiet  bed, 
While  in  far  deeper  slumber  rests 

The  young — the  cherish'd  dead. 

VIII. 

The  heaven  of  ransomed  childhood  ; — 

Oh,  Lamb  of  God  once  slain  ! 
The  "  little  ones"  Thou  lovest  still, 

All  worthy  is  Thy  name ! 
In  bright  array  they  gather  round 

Thy  throne  of  light  divine, 
Safe  in  Thy  Love, — no  more  to  roam, — 

Dear  Saviour,  they  are  Thine. 


BOYHOOD. 

BY  MRS.  FRANCES  S.  CSGOOD. 

AH  !  Boyhood  !  bright  Boyhood  !  how  beauteous  thou  art, 

When  Life's  sunny  morning  dawns  clear  in  thy  heart ! 

When  its  rose-hues  illumine  thy  joy-dimpled  cheek, 

And  its  light,  laughing  hopes  in  thy  happy  eyes  speak  ; 

The  bark  of  thy  Destiny  launched  on  Life's  tide, 

Thou  spring'st  to  the  helm,  full  of  rapture  and  pride ; 

Though  storms  gather  dark  in  the  distance  before  thee, 

Thou  seest  not — thou  hearest  not — the  blue  heaven  is  o'er  thee! 

And  the  murmur  of  waves,  and  the  sparkle  of  spray, 

Make  music,  and  beauty,  and  light  in  thy  way  ; 

Or  if  sometimes  a  shower  steal  down  to  the  lea, 

The  rainbow  glows  through  it — God's  promise  to  thee  ! 

And  only  by  islands  of  bloom  and  delight 

Thou  moorest  thy  bark  at  the  falling  of  night. 

But  heed'st  thou,  young  stranger !  those  clouds  in  the  west? 

They  steal  between  thee  and  thy  haven  of  rest ; 

Right  onward  they  come — they  are  looming  more  nigh ; 

They  darken — they  deepen — they  shut  out  the  sky  ! 

Oh  !  far,  far  beyond  them  thy  spirit  must  gaze 

For  the  rainbow  of  Hope  that  o'er  that  tempest  plays  ; 

It  dawns  ! — it  is  glowing — in  beauty  above  ; 

It  is  lighted  in  Heaven — by  God's  smile  of  love — 


BOYHOOD.  35 

For  thee — through  thy  tears  shall  that  fair  signal  shine, 
If,  in  answer,  thy  flag,  be  Christ's  banner  divine  ! 
Then  shrink  not — then  doubt  not — whate'er  thy  way  be, 
But  firm  'neath  that  banner  sail  over  Life's  sea ; 
Through  shallows  of  Folly — by  breakers  of  Sin — 
Untrammelled — triumphant — thy  way  thou  shalt  win  ; 
And  when  Earth's  fading  sun  lingers  low  in  the  west, 
While  bright  beams  before  thee  thy  haven  of  rest, 
Unscathed  by  the  storm — thou  shalt  take  in  thy  sail, 
No  longer  the  sport  of  the  wave  and  the  gale ; 
While  God's  holy  Angel  of  Death  shall  be  given 
To  pilot  thee  in — to  the  portals  of  Heaven  ! 


MY    SCHOLARS. 

BY  BUSHROD  BARTLETT,  ESQ., 

"  Eoruin  volo  esse  discipulus,  quorum  sum  et  filius." 

ERASMUS  EX  PLOT.  IN  LACON. 

"  Many  his  faults,  his  virtues  small  and  few  ; 
Some  little  good  he  did,  or  strove  to  do  ; 
Laborious  still,  he  taught  the  early  mind, 
And  urged  to  manners  meek  and  thoughts  refined." 

DWIGHT. 

THIRTY  years  was  I  a  schoolmaster,  thirty  happy,  and  I 
trust,  thirty  useful  years.  Yet  no  sinless  cherubs  condescended 
to  seek  the  benefit  of  my  instructions,  my  flock  were  undenia 
bly  of  the  posterity  of  Adam.  I  had  obstinate  boys  with 
round  eyes  and  upturned  noses ;  impudent  boys,  who  looked 
the  insult  they  dared  not  to  speak;  passionate  boys,  who 
slammed  desks  and  upset  inkstands ;  deceitful  boys,  who  never 
understood  the  question  when  not  prepared  to  answer — in 
short,  I  was  blessed  with  every  variety  of  the  bewitching 
torment  yclept  a  boy. 

Among  them  all,  perhaps  the  most  incorrigible  were  the 
dinner-basket  boys ;  gingerbread-loving,  nut-cracking  little  ani 
mals,  to  whom  the  crunching  of  an  apple  was  the  sweetest 
of  music.  A  boy  whose  heart  is  in  the  depths  of  his  dinner- 
basket,  is  a  difficult  subject  to  manage.  A  strong  counterac- 


MY    SCHOLARS.  37 

tion  in  the  head,  or  heart,  will  sometimes  quiet  the  gnawing  in 
the  stomach. 

One  bright  morning  in  autumn,  there  was  a  stir  among  the 
boys  near  the  windows,  as  a  carriage  rolled  down  the  quiet 
road  leading  to  the  school-house.  The  carriage  stopped,  and 
in  a  few  moments  Mrs.  Benton  had  introduced  her  son  to  his 
new  teacher.  Will  Benton  had  just  passed  his  twelfth  birth 
day;  his  tall  slight  figure  was  perfectly  proportioned,  and  bent 
to  acknowledge  the  introduction  with  a  grace  which  would 
have  charmed  his  dancing-master.  His  round  face,  bright 
colour  and  sweet  mouth,  were  relieved  from  effeminacy  by  his 
high,  bold  forehead  and  sparkling  black  eyes. 

As  Bentonbrook,  the  country  seat  of  his  father,  was  four  miles 
from  the  school-house,  the  carriage  was  not  to  be  sent  for  Will 
until  the  close  of  the  afternoon  session.  He  was  an  only  son, 
and  many  an  injunction  did  I  receive  from  his  mother  not  to  let 
him  study  too  hard,  or  in  any  way  injure  his  delicate  constitu 
tion.  There  seemed  little  danger  of  it,  for  health  was  beaming 
from  every  feature  of  his  handsome  countenance.  Before  Mrs. 
Benton  took  her  departure,  she  saw  that  his  neat  dinner-basket 
with  its  fine  white  napkin,  was  in  a  safe  place,  and  I  heard  her 
whisper,  as  she  bade  him  good-by,  "  Your  luncheon  is  at  the 
top,  darling,  and  very  nice  it  is." 

"  More  trouble,"  thought  I ;  but  a  glance  at  Will's  frank, 
pleasant  face,  diminished  my  fears.  For  several  days  I  watched 
with  anxiety  the  gusto  with  which  he  devoured  the  dainties 
which  were  prepared  for  him,  for  I  myself  was  then  an  humble 
dependant  upon  a  dinner-basket.  One  little  circumstance  I 
noticed  with  pleasure,  because  it  indicated  that  Will  had  not 
yet  been  made  totally  selfish  by  the  foolish  indulgence  of  his 
parents.  An  eager  group  of  the  smaller  boys  were  standing 

4 


38  MY   SCHOLARS. 

i 

around  him  wistfully  regarding  him,  while  he  was  making 
rapid  devastation  among  his  sandwiches  and  cream-cakes.  He 
read  their  expression  and  gave  them  a  taste  of  a  style  of  cook 
ing  which  they  seemed  fully  to  appreciate. 

The  next  day  I  proposed  to  Will,  as  I  had  often  done  to 
others  of  my  boys,  that  we  should  take  a  little  ramble  together 
at  noon.  "  We  can  take  our  baskets  with  us,"  said  I,  "  and  dine 
if  we  please,  on  the  rocks  by  the  river." 

He  seemed  delighted  with  the  proposal,  and  we  were  soon 
on  our  way.  We  walked  on,  familiarly  chatting  until  we  came 
in  sight  of  a  wretched  hovel  by  the  roadside,  which  had  long 
been  uninhabited.  I  had  noticed  for  several  days  a  light  column 
of  smoke  occasionally  ascending  from  the  chimney,  and  that 
day  I  had  learned  from  a  little  Irish  girl,  that  her  family  were 
living  there,  and  in  great  distress.  Telling  Will  that  I  had 
occasion  to  stop  there  a  few  moments,  I  knocked  at  the  door. 
It  was  opened  by  the  little  girl  whom  I  had  seen  in  the 
morning. 

An  emaciated  woman  was  asleep  upon  an  old  blanket  in 
one  corner  of  the  room,  while  a  boy,  apparently  about  the  age 
of  Will,  was  bending  over  a  few  coals  stirring  a  most  unin 
viting-looking  mixture  in  an  old  tin  cup. 

"  Is  not  this  little  Bridget  ?"  said  I. 

She  gave  me  a  joyous  glance  of  recognition,  and,  dropping  a 
low  courtesy,  hurried  towards  the  boy  and  whispered,  "  Spake 
to  the  gintleman,  Larry." 

"Whisht!"  said  Larry,  as,  followed  by  the  little  girl,  he 
stepped  outside  the  door  and  closed  it  behind  him.  "  The 
mither's  asleep  and  brathing  like  a  babby,  and  it's  maybe  that 
same,  that'll  be  afther  putting  the  old  life  into  her  again." 


MYSCHOLARS.  39 

"  You  are  strangers  here,"  said  I,  "  and  little  Bridget  tells 
me  that  your  mother  is  ill." 

"  Sure,  and  she's  not  been  the  same  at  all,  at  all,  since  she 
saw  them  bury  my  poor  fayther  in  the  deep  water.  It  was 
little  we  had  left  when  we  paid  the  captain,  and  stepped 
ashore  in  the  big  city.  And  lone-like  and  sorryful  my  poor 
mither  filt,  a  lone  \vidder  in  the  counthry  where  she  had  been 
draming  of  living  in  an  illigant  house,  with  everything  dacent 
about  her,  for  sorra  a  body  could  bate  my  fayther  in  any  work 
he  turned  his  hand  to.  Though  its  choking  she  was  with  her 
feelins,  she  made  bould  to  be  axing  a  very  nate,  presintable 
gintleman  she  met,  to  put  her  in  the  way  of  feedin  her  childer. 
He  called  her  an  Irish  beggar,  a  rascally  immigrant,  and  a 
thaving  paddy,  and  the  like  o'  that,  and  that  was  all  the  direc 
tion  she  got.  '  Sure,'  said  my  mither,  '  it's  not  in  the  big  city 
we'll  find  the  kind  hearts,  and  we'll  lave  it  behind  us.'  She 
claned  out  her  pocket  to  buy  us  some  bread,  and  then  told  us 
to  follow  her.  Hard  walking  it  was,  for  she  wint  like  the 
wind, — niver  turning  to  spake  to  us  like  herself.  Three  nights 
we  slept  by  the  road,  ating  our  bread  without  spaking,  for 
somehow  her  eyes  rolled,  and  she  was  so  strange-like,  that  we 
were  afeard  of  her.  It's  little  objection  we  made  when  she 
stopped  at  the  door  here  and  said  she  must  rist.  We  spread 
the  blanket  for  her  there  in  the  corner,  and  niver  a  mouthful 
has  she  tasted  these  three  days — though  its  wather  she's  been 
callin'  for,  from  mornin'  till  night.  It's  ould  Ireland  I've  been 
longing  for,  and  the  praste  and  my  cousins — for  I  could  not 
make  up  my  lips  for  axing  anything  from  the  could-hearted 
furriners,  who  gave  my  poor  mither  the  black  tongue,  when 
wake  and  waving  like  a  reed  she  was  axing  for  work." 

"  Niver  a  bit  would  I  have  stirred,"  interrupted  Bridget,  "  if 


40  MY   SCHOLARS. 

I  had  not  come  to  the  knowledge  that  Larry  was  starving  the 
life  out  of  him  for  mither  and  me.  Yesterday  morning  he 
gives  me  some  bread,  and  siz  he,  '  Sit  here  by  the  mither,  and 
watch  if  she  stirs,  while  I  go  outside  and  ate  a  bit  of  break 
fast  in  the  fresh  air/  He  had  not  lift  her  before,  and  he  was 
looking  down-hearted  like,  and  I  thought  a  sup  of  the  breezes 
would  do  him  no  harm,  so  I  sat  down  as  asy  as  you  plase. 
Purty  soon  he  came  back,  and  tucking  something  in  the  sack, 
he  began  to  talk  of  whin  he  should  be  a  man,  and  the  mither 
and  me  be  livin'  with  him,  with  everything  gould  about  us. 
At  noon  and  at  night,  he  took  to  ating  outside  agin  ;  he  tried 
to  be  cheery,  but  I  saw  it  wasn't  his  nat'ral  way.  This  morn 
ing  he  took  his  crust  and  went  out ;  as  soon  as  the  door  was 
shut,  I  kept  asing  along  till  I  got  just  by  the  hole  there ;  I 
looked  through;  there  was  Larry  on  his  knees,  and  as  thrue  as 
there  is  a  sky  above  us,  I  heard  him  say,  *  O  God,  help  me  to 
kape  my  promise  to  fayther,  and  take  care  of  poor  mither  and 
Bridget.  Give  me  strength  to  fight  with  the  craving  that 
would  timpt  me  to  be  ating  what's  to  keep  the  life  in  the  dar- 
lints,'  and  the  like  o'  that  he  kept  repeating.  When  he  got  up 
from  his  knees,  he  came  in  at  the  door  quite  nat'ral-like,  wiping 
his  mouth  as  if  he  had  had  an  illigant  breakfast.  I  knew  he 
had  desaived  me,  and  was  goin'  to  put  it  to  him,  but  jist  thin 
the  mither  opened  her  eyes,  and  asked  Larry,  jist  like  herself, 
to  give  her  something  to  eat. 

"  '  Sure,  mither,'  says  he,  <  and  it's  a  jewel  of  a  broth  I'll  be 
afther  making  you.'  Then  he  went  to  the  ould  sack  foreninst 
the  wall  there,  and  took  out  the  ould  crusts  as  dry  as  a  stick, 
and  while  he  was  putting  a  sup  of  water  to  them,  I  ran  out  of 
the  door,  and  niver  stopped  till  I  came  to  the  great  house 
where  I  saw  your  honour  and  all  the  purty  young  gintlemen, 
and  it's  not  till  this  minute  that  Larry  knew  that  I  went," 


MY   SCHOLARS.  41 

Poor  Larry  was  too  much  confused  at  finding  his  self-denial 
thus  discovered,  to  interrupt  little  Bridget  while  she  was  re 
lating  her  story. 

I  turned  to  look  at  Will ;  great  tears  were  rolling  down  his 
cheeks.  "  Here,  give  it  to  them,"  said  he,  handing  me  his 
basket. 

We  made  the  children  sit  down,  and  Will  saw  them  devour 
his  dinner,  with  a  purer  satisfaction  than  he  had  ever  before 
experienced. 

I  noticed  that  Larry  laid  aside  what  he  considered  the  most 
delicate  morsels, — I  did  not  doubt  they  wrere  for  his  mother, — 
and  promised  to  send  her  more  suitable  food. 

The  lesson  was  not  lost  upon  Will.  He  had  found  that 
there  wras  more  pleasure  in  a  kind  action,  than  a  good  dinner, 
and  he  never  forgot  it. 

The  poor  Irish  woman  recovered,  and  was  soon  able,  with 
Larry's  assistance,  to  obtain  a  comfortable  support. 

I  never  could  bear  to  inflict  pain  upon  the  smallest  animal ; 
when  I  have  awkwardly  trodden  upon  a  slumbering  dog,  I 
would  have  sacrificed  all  my  knowledge  of  Hebrew,  to  have 
been  sufficiently  versed  in  the  canine  dialect,  to  apologize  to 
the  suffering  beast.  With  these  sentiments,  the  idea  of  inflict 
ing  corporal  punishment  was  abhorrent  to  me ;  yet,  at  the 
commencement  of  my  career  as  a  pedagogue,  I  supposed  it 
must  be  done.  As  all  my  own  early  acquirements  had  been 
whipped  into  me,  I  believed  the  rod  to  be  an  essential  accom 
paniment  to  the  rudiments  of  learning. 

I  was  fresh  from  college  when  I  first  took  charge  of  my 
school.  In  spite  of  the  womanish  weakness  which  I  have 

4* 


42  MY   SCHOLARS. 

confessed,  I  had  resolved  upon  being  a  strict  disciplinarian.  I 
made  out  a  set  of  rigid  rules,  for  which  the  punishment  for  all 
larger  offences  was  plainly  declared  to  be  a  flogging. 

Several  weeks  had  passed,  and  my  courage  and  inflexibility 
in  wielding  the  rod  had  not  been  tried;  far  from  being  troubled 
with  disobedience,  I  had  surrounded  my  tall  person  with  such 
a  halo  of  dignity,  that  my  pupils  hardly  dared  to  recite  to  me; 
by  keeping  them  at  such  an  awful  distance,  I  failed  to  form  an 
acquaintance  with  them,  and  of  course  could  not  adapt  my 
discipline  to  their  different  dispositions. 

A  deep  and  rapid  river  ran  near  the  school-house.  As  many 
serious  accidents  had  occurred  there,  I  had  forbidden  my 
scholars  to  go  into  the  water,  unless  under  my  protection. 

One  very  warm  day,  as  I  was  about  commencing  school, 
two  of  my  best  scholars  hurriedly  entered  the  room.  My 
attention  was  attracted  to  Leighton  White,  the  younger  of  the 
two,  by  the  gushing  sound  of  water  in  his  shoes.  Turning 
towards  him,  I  perceived  that  he  was  drenched  from  head  to 
foot. 

"  Leighton  White,"  said  I,  sternly,  "  come  up  to  the  plat 
form." 

He  stepped  forward,  unabashed. 

"  Have  you  been  into  the  river,  this  morning  ?"  Leighton 
was  an  inveterate  stammerer ;  he  replied, 

"  I  ha-ha-have,  sir.*' 

"  Let  me  explain — let  me  explain,  Mr.  Bartlett !"  exclaimed 
Frank  Wharton,  the  other  late  comer. 

"  Silence  !"  thundered  I.  "No  interference ;  Leighton  can 
speak  for  himself.  Did  you  fall  into  the  river,  or  did  you  go 
in  on  purpose  ?" 

"  I  went  in  on  pur-pur-purpose." 


M  Y    S  C  H  O  L  A  R  S.  43 

Frank  Wharton  now  made  another  unsuccessful  effort  at 
explanation.  I  feared  to  listen,  lest  from  my  dislike  to  inflict 
punishment,  I  should  relent. 

Seizing  the  rattan  and  shutting  my  eyes,  I  gave  the  culprit 
several  severe  blows. 

Tears  started  to  his  eyes, — tears,  arising,  as  I  thought,  from 
wounded  pride,  rather  than  physical  suffering. 

"  Will  you  apologize  for  your  disobedience  ?"  said  I,  with 
my  voice  exalted  to  its  highest  pitch. 

"  No,  sir,"  replied  Leighton,  calmly  and  coldly ;  for  once, 
speaking  without  stammering. 

I  raised  the  rattan,  but  before  it  descended,  it  was  snatched 
from  my  grasp  by  Frank  Wharton.  A  bright  flush  was  on 
his  dark  cheek,  and  his  black  eyes  glowed  like  fire. 

"  Mr.  Bartlett,  you  must  and  shall  hear  me  !"  he  exclaimed. 
"  I  will  not  see  this  injustice  done  to  Leighton  White.  You 
have  punished  him  for  saving  your  sister's  life.  She  fell  from 
the  rocks  by  the  river,  and  would  have  been  drowned,  if 
Leighton  had  not  rushed  into  the  water,  and  at  the  risk  of  his 
own  life,  saved  hers." 

That  moment  was  the  bitterest  of  my  life.  As  soon  as  I 
could  command  my  voice,  I  said, 

"  Leighton,  can  you  forgive  me  ?" 

"  Fre-fre-freely,"  replied  the  noble  boy,  accepting  my  prof 
fered  hand  with  hearty  good-will. 

I  learned  from  this  sad  and  mortifying  lesson,  the  necessity 
of  understanding  perfectly  the  character  of  each  individual 
scholar,  and  of  weighing  testimony  with  scrupulous  care, 
before  inflicting  punishment.  But,  that  boys  need  punishment 
of  some  kind  is  a  truism,  that  the  most  ultra  advocate  for 
moral  suasion  will  not  pretend  to  deny. 


44  MY    SCHOLARS. 

I  noticed  one  morning  that  a  sudden  intimacy  had  sprung 
up  in  a  night,  between  Phil  Hart,  a  sly,  deceitful  boy,  and 
Harry  Perkins,  a  mischievous,  good-natured  rogue,  as  free 
from  deceitfulness  as  it  is  possible  for  a  lover  of  mischief  to  be. 

This  mushroom  friendship  foreboded  no  good  to  Harry 
Perkins. 

They  passed  the  recess  together,  and  when  they  re-entered 
the  school-room  their  faces  were  flushed,  as  from  recent  exer 
cise.  The  significant  looks  that  the  young  rogues  exchanged, 
on  taking  their  seats,  were  not  lost  upon  me.  About  half  an 
hour  after,  a  note  was  handed  me,  that  a  messenger  had  brought 
to  the  door. 

It  was  an  invitation  to  take  a  family  dinner  with  Mr.  God- 
dard,  a  gentleman  who  resided  about  two  miles  from  the 
school-house. 

"  A  manoeuvre  for  a  half  holiday,"  thought  I,  and  laid  the 
note  aside. 

The  school  closed  at  one  o'clock. 

"  Boys,"  said  I,  "  there  is  a  menagerie  in  town ;  you  will 
have  an  opportunity  to  see  it  this  afternoon,  for  I  have  re 
ceived  an  invitation  to  dine  with  Mr.  Goddard.  Philip  Hart 
and  Harry  Perkins,  I  shall  take  you  with  me  to  visit  my 
friend ;  he  is  very  happy  to  see  good  boys  at  his  beautiful 
country-seat." 

The  selection  of  these  boys  for  so  great  a  favour,  excited 
surprise  among  the  scholars  in  general.  The  wo-begone  coun 
tenances  of  the  favoured  two,  were  truly  ludicrous. 

"  Come,  boys,"  said  I,  to  Phil  and  Harry,  after  the  school 
was  dismissed,  "  let  us  take  a  lunch  before  we  go." 

The  rogues  lingered  over  their  luncheon  as  long  as  possible; 
every  mouthful  seeming  to  choke  them. 


MY   SCHOLARS.  45 

At  last,  when  \ve  were  about  to  start,  there  was  a  sudden 
brightening  of  their  rueful  faces,  as  another  note  was  handed  in. 

I  perceived  that  it  was  in  the  same  disguised  hand  as  that 
of  the  morning,  and,  suspecting  its  contents,  thrust  it  into  my 
pocket,  saying, 

"  I  cannot  stay  for  anything  now  ;  we  shall  be  too  late  for 
dinner." 

Starting  from  the  door  at  a  brisk  pace,  the  boys  followed 
me  writh  countenances  that  would  have  become  the  hired 
mourners  at  an  ancient  funeral,  and  I  am  not  sure  that  lachry 
matories  would  have  been  entirely  useless.  Without  turning 
my  head,  I  talked  as  I  went  onward,  in  a  lively,  familiar  man 
ner,  occasionally  asking  a  question,  which  was  answered  in  a 
dolorous  tone.  A  whispered  consultation  at  length  reached 
my  ear,  from  which  I  inferred  that  they  were  going  to  face 
about  and  make  their  escape. 

"  Come,  boys,"  said  I,  stepping  behind  them,  "  you  are  so 
much  younger  than  your  master,  you  may  try  and  see  if  I  can 
keep  up  with  your  rapid  walking ;  hurry  on,  or  we  shall  be 
too  late  for  dinner." 

We  were  at  length  in  sight  of  the  house,  and  actually  at  the 
gate. 

Harry  could  endure  concealment  no  longer.  "  Phil  Hart, 
you  are  a  deceitful  scamp,"  he  exclaimed;  "we  ought  to  con 
fess  all." 

Without  seeming  to  hear  it,  I  stepped  forward,  entered  the 
gate,  and,  determined  that  the  boys  should  be  punished  as  they 
deserved,  took  each  by  the  hand  and  led  them  towards  the 
house. 

"  Please,  sir,  read  the  note  in  your  pocket,"  said  Phil,  trem 
bling  from  head  to  foot. 


46  MY   SCHOLARS. 

"  Never  mind  the  note,"  said  I,  hurrying  through  the  wind 
ing  path  that  led  to  the  house. 

"  But,  sir,  Harry  Perkins  wrote  that  note  this  morning ;  Mr. 
Goddard  does  not  expect  you  to  dinner,"  said  Phil  Hart. 

"  He  wrote  it,  the  note  told  its  own  story  ;  but  who  planned 
this  piece  of  deception  ?" 

No  answer  was  given. 

"Who  planned  it?"  I  repeated  in  a  decided  manner,  that 
compelled  an  answer. 

"  If  you  will  look  at  the  note  in  your  pocket,  you  will  see 
that  Harry  Perkins  wrote  both  the  notes,"  replied  the  mean- 
spirited  Phil. 

"  And  Philip  Hart  contrived  the  whole  plan,"  said  I,  taking 
out  the  note  and  reading  it. 

It  ran  as  follows  : 

"  Mr.  Goddard  regrets  that  he  has  sudenly  got  to  go  to  town 
to-day,  and  I  canot  have  you  come  to  diner." 

"  Harry,"  said  I,  "  learn  to  double  your  consonants,  before 
you  attempt  another  piece  of  deception." 

"  Forgive  me,  Mr.  Bartlett,"  said  Harry  with  true  contri 
tion.  "  I  shall  never  attempt  anything  of  the  kind  again." 

"  I  believe  you,  Harry ;  choose  better  friends  in  future ;  you 
perceive  how  an  unprincipled  boy  would  lead  you  into  evil, 
and  then  desert  you,  or  throw  all  the  blame  upon  your  shoul 
ders.  You  have  my  forgiveness,  and  I  trust  your  sorrowful 
walk  has  been  a  sufficient  punishment.  As  for  you,  Philip,  I 
cannot  grant  you  a  full  pardon,  until  I  see  proofs  of  a  radical 
change  of  character.  I  consider  this  as  an  incipient  forgery. 
You  did  not  write — " 

"  No,  sir,  I  did  not  write  the  notes  at  all,"  interrupted  Phil. 

"  Be  silent !    The  act  was  yours.     Harry  was  the  too  ready 


MY    SCHOLARS.  47 

instrument.  I  say,  such  beginnings  would  lead  to  the  crime  of 
forgery.  Beware  !  or  you  will  end  your  career  within  the 
dark  walls  of  a  prison." 

My  homily  made  but  little  impression  upon  Philip  Hart. 
He  had,  alas !  gone  too  far  in  the  crooked  paths  of  deceit,  arid 
my  mournful  prophecy  was  subsequently  fulfilled. 

Providentially,  my  scholars  were  saved  from  his  evil  ex 
ample,  by  his  removal  a  few  weeks  after  our  walk,  to  a  distant 
part  of  the  country. 

The  impression  made  by  this  walk,  upon  the  mind  of  Harry 
Perkins,  was  deep  and  lasting.  Such  modes  of  punishment  I 
found  more  successful  in  reforming  offenders,  than  the  most 
severe  flogging. 

I  had  one  scholar,  who  never  deserved  the  slightest  punish 
ment. 

Albert  Tracy  possessed  a  refined  and  correct  taste,  a  quick 
perception  of  the  beautiful,  and  an  enthusiastic  admiration  of 
the  noble  and  good.  Religious  truth  had  sunk  deep  into  his 
heart,  and  its  all-pervading  influence  was  manifested  in  his 
daily  life. 

He  was  an  orphan,  who  had  been  placed  with  me  at  an 
early  age  by  his  guardians,  with  the  expectation  of  remaining 
under  my  charge  until  he  entered  college. 

Albert  became  the  light  of  my  bachelor  home,  and  my  old 
heart  clung  to  him  as  to  an  only  son.  He,  in  return,  lavished 
upon  me  an  affection  warmer  and  deeper  than  most  boys 
demonstrate  for  their  parents ;  when  he  was  absent  from  school, 
I  not  only  missed  his  pleasant  face  and  perfect  recitations,  but 
felt  my  comfort  materially  diminished.  No  ready  hand  relieved 
me  from  my  hat  and  cane,  after  a  weary  walk ;  no  glass  of 
water,  fresh  from  the  spring,  was  placed  upon  my  desk ;  no 


48  MYSCHOLARS. 

softened  voice  and  gentle  tread,  expressed  sympathy  for  the 
headache  which  a  troubled  expression  alone  betrayed. 

Our  heart-strings  responded  to  the  same  touch ;  the  bright 
tear  would  sparkle  in  the  dark  blue  eye  of  Albert,  while  my 
frame  thrilled  with  emotion.  Many  a  merry  laugh  too,  have 
we  enjoyed  together ;  truly  the  hours  spent  in  his  companion 
ship,  shine  out  from  the  memory  of  the  past,  like  my  best 
beloved  constellations,  the  glory  of  the  wintry  sky. 

How  will  he  tame  down  that  soaring  spirit  to  the  dull,  plod 
ding  cares  of  a  profession !  What  grief  will  be  his,  at  the  sight 
of  wrongs  which  he  cannot  redress,  and  sufferings  which  he 
cannot  mitigate ! 

Such  were  often  my  reflections,  while  his  eloquent  counte 
nance  told  the  story  of  the  noble  spirit  wdthin. 

It  was  near  the  close  of  school  term.  Themes  were  to  be 
read  aloud  at  the  examination.  Anxious,  I  supposed,  to  have 
his  composition  entirely  his  own,  Albert  did  not  communicate 
to  me  the  topic  he  had  chosen.  Late  one  evening,  he  finished 
his  neat,  final  copy,  and,  weary  with  the  exertion,  he  retired 
to  rest. 

The  morning  found  him  upon  the  bed  of  sickness.  Three 
days  of  acute  suffering,  borne  with  uncomplaining  patience, 
brought  him  to  the  borders  of  the  grave. 

I  watched  the  countenance  of  the  attending  physician,  and 
read  in  its  anxious  sadness,  the  doom  of  my  beloved  Albert. 

As  a  part  of  my  duty,  I  had  given  him  religious  instruction, 
but  the  idea  of  preparing  him  for  early  death,  had  never  en 
tered  my  mind.  4  How  would  he  bear  the  announcement  that 
his  life  was  so  near  its  close  ! 

"  Albert,"  said  I,  endeavouring  to  command  my  emotion, 


MY   SCHOLARS. 


49 


"  have  you  ever  thought  of  the  possible  termination  of  your 
illness." 

"  In  death  ?"  he  calmly  inquired. 

I  could  not  answer. 

"  Dear  Mr.  Bartlett,  do  not  grieve  for  me,"  he  continued. 
"  He  who  strengthens  me  to  endure  my  sufferings,  has  taken 
away  the  bitterness  of  death.  I  had  hoped  to  honour  you  by 
a  brilliant  career  on  earth,  but,  my  dear  teacher,  will  not  your 
reward  be  greater  if  you  have  prepared  my  soul  for  Heaven?" 

Completely  unmanned,  I  could  only  clasp  his  thin  hand  in 
my  own,  while  he  murmured, 

"  The  dear  boys  !— Tell  them  good-by— Keep  near  me— 
We  shall  meet  again." 

The  little  hand  grew  cold  in  mine,  and  Albert  was  no  more. 

Some  weeks  after  the  death  of  my  beloved  pupil,  I  sum 
moned  resolution  to  open  his  little  writing-desk.  Amono-  his 
neatly-filed  papers,  there  was  one  loose  sheet.  It  was  his  last 
composition,  and  entitled, 

THE  ORPHAN-BOY  TO  HIS  TEACHER. 

A  FLOWERING  plant  had  drooped  and  died  ; 

Close  clinging  to  its  root, 
The  gardener  found,  still  fresh  and  green, 

A  tender  little  shoot. 

Left  unprotected  in  the  sun, 

Its  leaves  began  to  fade, 
Which  erst  so  rapidly  had  grown 

Beneath  the  parent  shade. 

5 


50  MY    SCHOLARS. 

When  evening  came  with  gentle  dews, 

And  heat  no  longer  raged, 
Its  little  roots,  with  careful  hand, 

The  gardener  disengaged. 

He  placed  it  in  a  pleasant  spot, 

Beneath  a  noble  tree, 
Which,  crowned  with  verdure,  stately  rose 

In  full  maturity. 

Its  pensile  leaves  were  soon  refreshed, 

Its  fragile  roots  grew  firm, 
While,  folded  in  the  downy  bud, 

Revived  the  languid  germ. 

By  passing  through  the  foliage  dense, 
The  sunbeams  lost  their  power  ; 

The  beating  storms,  grown  gentle,  fell 
A  sweet  refreshing  shower. 

Unmeet  return  !     The  grateful  plant 

Could  only  give  its  love, 
Which  floated  fragrant  through  the  air, 

And  reached  the  tree  above. 

My  faithful  teacher,  dearest  friend, — 
My  guide  to  truth  and  joy, — 

Thou  art  that  kind  and  noble  tree, — 
The  plant — your  Orphan  Boy. 


DREAMLAND    MELODY. 

BY  WILLIAM  B.  HARTWELL. 

"  THE  poetry  of  girlhood."  What  an  absurdity  !  A  man 
of  two-and-twenty,  write  of  the  poetry  of  girlhood !  Mine 
are  the  most  anti-poetical,  the  most  homespun  reminiscences 
possible;  teasing  a  quarter  of  a  dozen  frolicsome,  romping 
school-girls,  my  sisters ;  frightening  their  playmates  out  of  the 
house  by  all  manner  of  boyish  mischief ;  seeing  those  same 
sisters  conning  over  their  lessons,  and  shedding,  not  pearly 
drops  over  rosy  cheeks,  but  showers  of  salt  water  over  peony 
faces ;  shy  and  awkward,  when  I  wished  them  to  be  on  their 
best  behaviour  before  my  college  cronies,  or  pert  and  pretend 
ing,  when  earnestly  requested  to  be  quiet  and  demure. 

Besides  ;  I  could  never  see  that  they  were  of  any  possible 
use.  If  I  happened  to  want  a  button  sewed  on,  they  were 
sure  to  be  practising,  or  gossiping  and  giggling  in  a  sly  cor 
ner,  with  some  other  unfledged  school-girl. 

When  I  found  my  own  fingers  too  clumsy  to  execute  a 
complicated,  fashionable  cravat-tie,  not  in  the  "  Tieana,"  they 
only  made  my  ears  tingle  with  shrill  peals  of  laughter,  at  what 
they  termed  consummate  vanity  in  a  man,  although  they  spent 
hours  in  learning  a  new  stitch  in  crochet  or  worsted  work. 


52  DREAMLAND   MELODY. 

Then,  they  had  such  excellent  appetites,  and  were  so 
healthy,  not  affecting  the  spirituelle,  nor  the  ethereal,  even  to 
please  my  visiters,  some  of  whom  were  of  the  Byronian  school. 
This,  however,  I  can  the  more  readily  pardon,  as  my  sisters, 
happily,  were  not  cognisant  of  his  lordship's  peculiarities. 
Thinking  of  their  healthfulness,  reminds  me  of  the  time  when 
illness  kept  me  a  prisoner  for  months  at  home.  How  kind, 
how  gentle  were  they,  in  their  sisterly  ministrations !  How 
patient,  in  spite  of  all  my  whims  and  caprices !  How  self- 
denying — how  forgiving !  Indeed,  they  had  much  to  forgive. 

And  one, — who  was  not  my  sister, — sweet,  guileless  Ella 
Wood, — I  fear  she  now  remembers  me,  as  I  would  not  wish 
to  be  remembered, — brothers  are  seldom  seen  to  much  advan 
tage  at  home.  Yes  ;  Ella  was  a  beautiful  girl. 

A  long  revery  succeeded,  which  gently  led  the  way  to 
Dreamland. 

Sprites — fair  and  dark,  slender  and  plump,  grave  and  frolic 
some,  classical  and  homelike — were  flitting  about  the  green 
dell.  They  formed  a  circle  around  the  elm-tree,  at  the  foot  of 
which  I  had  thrown  myself,  and,  in  a  kind  of  musical  recita 
tive,  to  which  they  kept  time  with  their  tiny  feet,  they  uttered 
the  following  rhapsody  : 

I. 

GIRLHOOD  !     Free  as  air, 
Down  floats  the  silken  hair  ; 
Unfettered  still 
As  mountain  rill, 

The  bounding  footsteps  kiss  the  grass, 
And  shake  the  dew-drops  as  they  pass. 


DREAMLAND  MELODY.  53 

II. 

Fashion,  tyrant  sprite  ! 
Avaunt,  with  shackles  tight ! 
The  simple  dress 
Of  girlishness, 

As  little  homage  owes  to  thee, 
As  lily -bell  or  forest-bee. 

III. 

Girlhood !     Brightest  stage 
Of  all  our  pilgrimage  ! 
A  sunny  hill 
Where  linger  still 

The  birds,  who  cheered  our  childhood's  hours, 
Now  perfect  in  their  vocal  powers. 

IV. 

Here, — from  maidenhood, 
Sweet  pathway  to  the  wood, — 
The  briar-rose 
Its  perfume  throws ; 
Its  blushing  hues  inviting  smile, 
And  hidden  is  the  thorn,  the  while. 

V. 

Girlhood  !     Nature's  prime  ! 
Life's  naive  and  frankest  time  ; 

When  hearts  are  stirred 

By  lightest  word, 

5* 


54  DREAMLAND   MELODY. 

And  features  fair  obey  the  mind, 
As  aspen-leaves  the  summer  wind. 

VI. 

Love,  like  light  and  air, 
Is  lavished  everywhere ; 
On  bird  and  flower, 
On  book  and  bower, — 
It  fills  with  gladness  Learning's  dome, 
And  makes  a  Paradise  of  home. 

VII. 

Girlhood !     Heaven-taught ! 
A  cloud  with  sunbeams  wrought ! 
A  crystal  vase 
For  gems  of  grace  ! 
An  angel's  harp,  to  mortals  given, 
To  echo  here  the  songs  of  Heaven. 


«";,  fl  m  L  1H1  (CD  CD  [0)  „ 


BESSIE    NEWTON. 


BY  ALICE  G.  LEE. 


"  Light  as  a  bird's  were  her  springing  feet ; 
Her  heart  as  joyous,  her  song  as  sweet." 

AMELIA  WELBY. 


BESSIE  NEWTON  was  not  fairy-like;  she  was  too  robust  to 
deserve  that  epithet;  this  was  her  greatest  charm.  The 
warm,  rich  blood  mantled,  at  a  word,  her  sunny  face  ;  perfect 
health  gave  brilliancy  to  her  dark  eyes,  and  elasticity  to  her 
footsteps ;  so  round,  so  plump  was  she,  that  you  would  have 
known  at  once  the  country  was  her  home ;  its  pure,  delicious 
air  alone  can  give  that  Hebe-like  beauty.  And  this  was  her 
fourteenth  birthday. 

It  was  a  most  beautiful  morning.  The  trees  were  nodding 
to  each  other,  as  if  rejoicing  in  the  warm  sunshine ;  their 
fresh  green  foliage  contrasting  with  the  deep  blue  of  the  o'er- 
hanging  sky,  where  a  few  soft  clouds  floated  lazily.  A  mur 
mur  and  a  ripple  stole  through  the  long  grass  in  the  meadows, 

the  robin  and  the  wren  poured  forth  their  gladness  in  song. 

The  heart  of  Bessie  Newton  was  filled  with  joy,  as  she  looked 
forth  upon  the  beautiful  earth ;  joy,  unmingled  with  one  shade 
of  sorrow,  for  the  spell  of  deep  thought  was  not  as  yet  cast 


56  BESSIE    NEWTON. 

over  her.     It  was  enough  that  the  sun  shone  brightly,  and  the 
earth  smiled  ;  love,  ambition,  fear,  were  all  sleeping. 

Long  may  it  be,  Bessie  Newton,  ere  thy  heart  awake  from 
the  brief,  bright  dream  of  girlhood,  to  the  fears  and  disquieting 
aspirations  of  the  thoughtful  maiden.  Life  has  but  beauty  for 
thee  now;  existence  is  a  blessing.  The  fresh  breeze  of  spring, 
bears  pleasure  from  every  perfume-laden  leaf  and  flower- 
cup;  the  ripple  and  the  dash  of  the  silver  streamlet  has  a  care 
less  melody  that  suits  well  with  thy  changeful  mood.  The 
summer  shower  is  not  more  transient  than  thy  grief,  and  the 

rainbow  of  Hope  follows  ever  the  storm.     The  future  ! it  is 

no  bitter  word  for  thee ;  the  past,  the  present,  are  unclouded ; 
why  dread  a  darker  sky?  But  the  time  will  come,  gentle 

girl,  when  the  flowers  will  be  but  tokens  of  pleasures  past, 

the  song  of  the  rivulet  seem  as  a  sad  and  moaning  dirge,  and 
the  bright  tints  of  Hope  will  fade,  one  by  one,  from  the  horizon 
of  the  future.  Then,  when  Nature  hath  lost  its  early  power 
to  soothe — when  human  love  has  betrayed  its  trust,  leaving 
thy  soul  lone  and  desolate,  yearning  for  companionship  and 
solace, — turn  from  the  world  that  was  once  so  beautiful,  and  a 
more  holy  faith  shall  fill  thy  heart  with  a  heritance  of  joy, 
"  incorruptible,  undefiled,  and  that  fadeth  not  away." 


THE    FROZEN    STAR. 

A  SNOW-FLAKE  left  its  lofty  home, 

In  fleecy  clouds  afar, 
And  gently  dropped  upon  the  ground, 

A  perfect  little  star. 

Its  tiny  points  grew  thin  at  first, 

Then  melted  quite  away, 
And  soon  a  sullied,  shapeless  thing, 

The  hapless  snow-flake  lay. 

The  soul  is  like  that  starry  flake, 
A  thing  of  heavenly  birth, 

Its  holy  beauties  fade  away, 
Beneath  the  touch  of  earth. 

ARIA. 


COLLEGE    HONOURS. 

BY  THE  EDITOR. 

"  Hasten  to  the  goal  of  fame  between  the  posts  of  duty, 
And  win  a  blessing  from  the  world,  that  men  may  love  thy  name  ; 
Yea.,  that  the  unction  of  its  praise  in  fragrance  well-deserving, 
May  float  aclown  the  stream  of  time,  like  ambergris  at  sea." 

PROVERBIAL  PHILOSOPHY. 

"  COME,  Reginald,  do  put  down  that  old  book  a  moment ;  I 
want  you  to  climb  the  tree,  and  gather  some  magnolias  for 
the  drawing-room  vases.  Here  is  Annie  with  her  little  basket, 
to  hold  them." 

"  Do  not  disturb  me,  Laura,"  replied  the  boy  thus  addressed, 
who  was  lying  upon  the  grass  under  the  magnolia  tree ;  "  I  am 
learning  some  passages  in  Cicero  de  Senectute,  to  quote  to  the 
old  gentleman." 

"  Snaketuty !"  exclaimed  the  youngest  sister ;  "  Is  that  old 
book  covered  with  a  real  snake-skin  ?" 

"  How  silly !"  responded  Reginald  ;  "  the  book  is  an  ancient 
copy  that  belonged  to  our  great,  great  grandfather,  of  the 
immortal  Cicero,  on  Old  Age ;  it  is  bound,  as  it  should  be,  in 
parchment;  and  I  wish  it  had  been  written  upon  it.  I  venerate 
antiquity." 


COLLEGEHONOURS.  59 

At  this  pedantic  and  pompous  speech,  the  sisters  laughed 
till  the  tears  stood  in  their  bright  blue  eyes. 

"  What  in  the  name  of  the  seven  wonders  of  the  world  are 
you  laughing  at  ?"  demanded  the  angry  boy,  starting  up  and 
throwing  the  valued  book  on  the  ground. 

"  At  your  grandiloquent  air,  Reginald,"  replied  Laura  ;  "  and 
the  idea  is  so  droll,  of  repeating  to  your  own  grandpa  what 
you  have  learned  out  of  a  book.  Some  of  the  men  of  old 
times  used  to  commit  set  speeches  to  memory,  to  say  to  Queen 
Elizabeth.  Do  you  remember  her  reply  to  the  one  who  said, 

"  Most  mighty  Queen, 
Welcome  to  Falkenstein?" 

"  Do  you  mean  to  insult  me  ?"  fiercely  retorted  Reginald. 

"  No,  brother,  indeed  I  do  not ;  mamma  says  grandpa  is  not 
an  old  man,  and  I  thought  even  a  Latin  quotation  on  old  age, 
would  not  be  very  complimentary,"  replied  Laura. 

"  I  am  sorry  he  is  coming  here,  for  it  will  spoil  all  our  fun," 
said  Annie. 

"  Mamma  says  it  will  add  to  our  pleasure,  Annie ;  we  ought 
to  be  very  glad  he  is  coming." 

"  It  is  very  well  for  you,  Miss  Laura,  to  quote  \vhat  mamma 
says,  on  all  occasions,  but  I  am  out  of  leading  strings.  My 
grandfather  is  a  learned  and  great  man — the  Normans  have 
been  so  from  time  immemorial, — and  I  wish  to  exhibit  before 
him  some  maturity  of  mind  and  manliness  of  character.  But  a 
girl  of  thirteen  cannot  appreciate  these  things." 

"  I  think  it  quite  as  much  to  the  purpose  for  me  to  quote  my 
own  mother's  opinions,  as  for  you  to  repeat  passages  from 
Cicero  de  Senectute,  to  our  grandpa  !" 

"  It  is  impossible  for  you  to  judge  what  is  proper  for  a  man, 


60  COLLEGE   HONOURS. 

•who  is  just  about  to  enter  college,"  said  Reginald,  picking  up 
the  venerable  book,  and  casting  an  admiring  glance  at  the 
glossy  dress-coat,  which  ornamented  his  tall  slender  person. 

"  A  man  of  sixteen  !"  exclaimed  Annie,  clapping  her  hands. 
"  A  man  in  his  first  long  coat !" 

"  The  natural  inferiority  of  your  sex,  shields  you  from  my 
contempt,"  said  Reginald  to  Annie ;  and,  turning  to  Laura, 
with,  "  Jlu  revoir,  Miss  Mamma-says,"  he  walked  oflf,  with 
what  was  intended  for  a  very  dignified  manner. 

Annie  whispered  to  her  sister,  as  he  disappeared  among  the 
thick  shrubbery,  "  Does  he  not  walk  exactly  like  one  of  our 
young  turkeys  ?" 

"  Hark  !"  replied  Laura,  "  I  hear  a  carriage  coming  up  the 
avenue  ;  it  must  be  grandpa.  Let  us  run  and  tell  mamma." 

The  sisters  started  off  at  full  speed,  and  soon  reached  the 
mansion  of  Oakside. 

It  was  the  first  time  that  either  Mrs.  Norman  or  her  chil 
dren  had  ever  seen  the  expected  guest.  She  hastened  with 
them  to  the  porch  to  receive  him.  As  he  alighted  from  the 
carriage,  Reginald  placed  himself  beside  his  mother,  as  her 
protector,  the  little  girls  stood  trembling  on  the  other  side.  It 
was  evident  that  the  arrival  of  Judge  Norman  was  dreaded, 
even  more  than  it  was  desired. 

His  greeting  was  cordial  and  affectionate.  Mrs.  Norman's 
heart  was  throbbing  with  intense  emotion,  although  there  was 
nothing  in  her  manner  that  indicated  the  slightest  agitation. 

The  erect  person  and  firm  step  of  Judge  Norman,  demon 
strated  the  decision  of  character  for  which  he  had  been  dis 
tinguished  from  boyhood.  The  lines  of  thought  which  had 
delicately  traced  themselves  about  the  tightly-closed  mouth 
and  high  forehead,  gave  intensity  of  expression  to  his  counte- 


COLLEGEHONOURS.  61 

nance  without  marring  it.  Although  his  hair  was  thinned 
about  the  temples,  its  blackness  was  only  softened  by  a  few 
silvery  tokens  of  approaching  age.  His  dark  eye  was  still 
undimmed,  although  it  had  occasionally  that  look  of  introver 
sion,  so  frequently  seen  in  men  of  thoughtful  habits.  But  as 
every  human  face  is  said  to  be  "  either  a  prophecy  or  a  his 
tory,"  the  least  accurate  physiognomist  might  have  read  in 
Judge  Norman's,  that,  although  a  successful  man  of  the  world, 
he  had  felt  the  pangs  of  disappointment,  and  been  compelled 
to  drink  of  the  waters  of  affliction. 

In  the  evening,  as  the  family  were  assembled  in  the  parlour, 
Judge  Norman  sat  with  his  eyes  intently  fixed  upon  his  grand 
son,  who  was  reading  his  favourite  Cicero,  but  not  on  Old  Age, 
— the  appearance  of  his  grandfather  had  dispelled  his  quota 
tions.  Mrs.  Norman  was  busily  plying  the  knitting-needle, 
and  the  sisters  were  amusing  themselves  with  a  set  of  histori 
cal  cards. 

After  a  long  silence,  Judge  Norman  abruptly  addressed 
Reginald  :  "  So,  then,  you  are  going  to  college,  boy.  What 
good  will  a  liberal  education  do  you,  here,  in  the  retirement  of 
the  country  ?" 

Reginald  threw  one  glance  from  his  dark  eyes  towards  his 
sisters  as  the  word  boy  grated  upon  his  ear,  and  then  replied 
in  the  most  manly  tone. 

"  There  is  much  attractiveness  in  an  author's  fame,  and 
genius  is  idolized  by  all.  You  know  what  Willis  says  : 

11 '  Press  on  ! 

For  it  shall  make  you  mighty  among  men, 
And,  from  the  eyrie  of  your  eagle  thought, 
Ye  shall  look  down  on  monarchs.     O  press  on  ! 
For  the  high  ones  and  powerful  shall  come 
6 


62  COLLEGE  HONOURS. 

To  do  you  reverence,  and  the  beautiful 
Will  know  the  purer  language  of  your  brow, 
And  read  it  like  a  talisman  of  love.'  " 

"  A  boyish  fancy,"  muttered  the  judge,  "  but  beautiful." 

"  Military  glory  has  its  charms,  too.  A  victorious  general, 
crowned  with  well-earned  laurels,  is  as  much  to  be  envied  as 
the  poet  with  his  bays.  Cicero  says — " 

Annie  interrupted  Reginald  ; — laying  her  dimpled  hand  upon 
his  shoulder,  and  looking  earnestly  in  his  face,  she  said,  "  Do 
be  a  soldier,  brother  ;  that  would  be  beautiful !" 

"  A  soldier,  Annie  !  you  forget  the  bullets.  How  can  you 
wish  your  brother  to  be  a  soldier  ?"  inquired  Mrs.  Norman. 

"  I  should  like,  myself,  to  have  been  Bonaparte." 

"  You,  little  Annie  !  You  would  like  to  have  been  Bona 
parte  !" 

"  Yes,  indeed,  I  should,  mamma ;  it  would  be  so  nice  to 
have  one's  likeness  everywhere,  and  to  be  so  admired.  The 
last  time  I  was  in  town,  I  saw  Bonaparte  everywhere.  There 
he  stood  in  the  shop-windows,  with  his  arms  folded,  you  know; 
dear  little  men,  of  marble,  bronze,  plaster,  china,  and  green 
glass,  all  of  them  with  the  sweet  little  cocked-hat,  the  epau 
lettes,  and  funny  boots.  Grandpa,  do  you  not  think  Bonaparte 
was  a  pretty  man." 

"  Do  you  call  the  dark  thunder-cloud,  sending  forth  its 
forked  lightning,  a  pretty  cloud  ?" 

"  Oh,  no,  it  is  awful." 

"  So  was  Bonaparte,  my  dear  little  girl.  Reginald,  of  all 
ambition,  military  ambition  is  the  most  baseless,  the  most  de 
lusive,  and  the  most  uncertain ;  unless  the  posthumous  glory 
of  a  green-glass  statue  has  attractions  for  you.  The  cocked- 
hat,  epaulettes,  and  gold  lace,  have  doubtless  been  the  attrac- 


COLLEGE   HONOURS.  G3 

tions  to  many  young  soldiers  who  fell  in  the  first  battle.  They 
have  as  much  value  in  my  estimation  as  any  other  part  of 
military  glory." 

"  But  ambition  is  a  noble  passion,"  retorted  Reginald,  his 
large  dark  eyes  "  in  a  fine  frenzy  rolling."  He  continued :  "  I 
am  determined  to  be  distinguished  in  some  way ;  as  a  states 
man,  if  it  is  your  wish,  sir." 

The  grandfather  took  a  large  seal-ring  from  his  own  slender 
finger,  and,  placing  it  upon  one  of  Reginald's,  said : 

"  Let  that  be  the  memento  of  your  noble  resolution." 

"  Yes,  my  son,"  remarked  Mrs.  Norman,  in  a  gentle  but 
decided  manner,  "  it  is  a  noble  resolution,  if  you  '  noble  ends 
by  noble  means  attain.' ' 

"  You  would  like  to  have  been  Lord  Bacon,  perhaps." 

"  Indeed  I  should,  mother :  I  would  toil  and  labour  inces 
santly  to  gain  such  distinction.  I  call  that  a  noble  ambition." 

The  usually  pale  face  of  Mrs.  Norman  was  suffused  with  a 
bright  colour,  and  her  knitting-needle  moved  rapidly,  as  she 
said, 

"  The  ambition  of  Bacon  was  not  a  noble  one,  neither  were 
the  means  to  attain  it  noble.  The  goal  was  the  seal  of  the 
High  Chancellor.  It  glittered  high  above  his  reach,  like  a 
bright,  particular  star.  How  was  he  to  pluck  it  from  the 
sky  ?  The  ladder  that  reached  his  heaven,  was  not  filled  with 
angels;  its  rounds  might  break  beneath  his  feet.  He  crept 
stealthily  up,  kicking  down  every  obstacle  in  his  way." 

"  Oh,  mother,  you  are  severe  upon  my  Lord  Verulam," 
exclaimed  Reginald,  laughing. 

"  Not  enough  so,"  replied  Mrs.  Norman  ;  "  I  have  no  words 
strong  enough  to  express  my  contempt  for  Bacon.  He 


64  COLLEGE   HONOURS. 

cringed,  and  bowed,  and  sued  to  all  in  power,  with  the  most 
servile  sycophancy ;  his  adulation  to  royalty  amounted  to 
positive  blasphemy.  Read  his  letters  to  the  imperious  Eliza 
beth,  stuffed  with  fulsome  flattery,  and  to  James  L,  with  imita 
tive  pedantry." 

"  But  please,  mother,  allow  that  he  was  the  wisest  of  man 
kind,"  urged  Reginald. 

"  His  wisdom  was  that  of  the  intellect  alone,"  replied  the 
mother.  "  His  mean  duplicity  and  monstrous  ingratitude  to 
wards  his  generous  friend  and  patron,  the  gallant  Essex,  prove 
the  degradation  of  his  moral  nature.  His  whole  career  de 
monstrated  an  entire  destitution  of  that  wisdom  from  above, 
which  is  pure,  peaceable,  full  of  mercy  arid  good  fruits,  with 
out  partiality  and  without  hypocrisy." 

"  And  did  he  get  to  be  Lord  Chancellor?"  inquired  Laura. 

"  He  did ;  by  concentrating  all  the  power  of  a  mighty  in 
tellect  upon  that  one  object ;  and  the  use  that  he  made  of  his 
office,  was  such  as  might  have  been  expected  from  the  manner 
in  which  he  obtained  it.  Do  you  think,  Reginald,  that  his  life 
was  a  happy  one  ?" 

"  It  was  a  glorious  one,"  was  the  reply. 

"And  his  fall,  was  that  glorious  ?  Happier  had  it  been  for 
him  and  for  the  world,  had  Bacon,  in  some  quiet  village,  culti 
vated  himself  the  philosophy,  and  practised  the  wisdom  that 
he  so  ably  taught  to  others." 


II. 


Two  years  and  more  had  elapsed  since  the  grandfather's 
visit  to  Oakside.     Reginald  was  in  his  junior  year  at  college. 


COLLEGE   HONOURS.  65 

"  I  pity  the  poor  plodding  dunces  whose  books  are  glued  to 
their  hands  from  morning  to  night,  and  night  to  morning,"  said 
Reginald  to  his  chum.  "  I  am  determined  to  taste  Hyblean 
sweets,  as  well  as  Pierian  waters." 

"  But  do  you  not  fear  that  Paul  Winsor  will  gain  the  first 
appointment  ?" 

"  Not  in  the  least ;  I  would  shoot  myself  if  such  a  working- 
man  could  distance  me  in  the  race.  Not  that  I  care  for  a 
college  honour ;  but  I  will  not  play  second  fiddle  any  where." 

"  You  have  many  competitors." 

"  The  many  fail,  the  one  succeeds,"  proudly  responded  Regi 
nald  Norman. 

"  Your  success  in  society  exceeds  your  popularity  in  the 
class ;  half  the  young  ladies  in  town  are  in  love  with  you," 
continued  Mason  Morton, — a  contemptible  variety  of  the 
species  toady. 

"  A  random  shot  occasionally  rings  upon  my  invulnerable 
armour,"  responded  Reginald,  giving  a  glance  at  his  very 
handsome  head,  in  the  small  looking-glass  that  stood  upon  his 
study  table,  and  running  his  taper  fingers  through  the  dark 
chestnut  curls. 

Equally  desirous  to  maintain  the  reputation  of  "  a  capital 
fellow,"  among  his  classmates,  he  mingled  with  them  as  boon 
companion,  his  sparkling  wit  giving  zest  to  their  gay  circles. 

"  He  never  studies  !  What  uncommon  genius  Norman  has, 
to  give  such  recitations ;"  was  often  remarked  by  those  class 
mates.  But  this  apparent  neglect  of  study  was  a  mere  strata 
gem.  The  flickering  lamp  often  blended  its  expiring  light 
with  the  first  rays  of  morning,  while  Reginald's  slender  person 
was  still  bending  over  a  Greek  classic,  or  a  mathematical 

6* 


66  COLLEGEHONOURS. 

problem.    Night  after  night,  was  thus  devoted  to  intense  appli 
cation,  after  days  of  idleness. 

The  examination  of  the  class  was  over,  the  junior  appoint 
ments  out,  and  Reginald  Norman  had  received  the  first  honour; 
Paul  Winsor  the  second. 


III. 


It  wras  the  close  of  a  day  in  early  spring-time ;  the  sky  had 
that  bright  clear  blue,  that  contrasts  so  beautifully  with  the 
softened  brown  of  the  budding  trees. 

A  young  man  might  have  been  seen,  making  rapid  headway 
over  a  turnpike  road,  through  a  country  whose  picturesque 
beauty  has  not  yet  been  marred  by  modern  improvements. 

His  strides  were  as  regular  as  the  strokes  of  a  steam  engine, 
and  progression  was  effected  without  relaxation,  or  apparent 
fatigue,  mile  after  mile. 

Under  the  left  arm,  the  young  man  carried  a  small  port 
manteau  ;  the  large  walking-stick  in  his  right  hand,  if  it  did 
not  facilitate  his  progress,  gave  the  same  kind  of  encourage 
ment  to  the  pedestrian,  as  the  velocipede  does  to  the  juvenile 
equestrian,  who  performs  a  ride  upon  that  labour-inciting 
machine. 

It  was  Paul  Winsor  who  thus  pursued  his  journey.  The 
fresh  hue  of  youth  glowed  upon  a  countenance  to  which  intel 
lect  and  resoluteness  of  purpose  gave  manliness  of  expression ; 
and  the  fearlessness  of  his  clear  blue  eye  was  the  exponent  of 
a  quiet  conscience. 

This  primitive  mode  of  travelling  had  its  pleasures  to  a 
genuine  lover  of  nature ;  the  boundless  cope  of  heaven,  and  the 


COLLEGEHONOURS.  67 

"  unchartered"  horizon,  harmonized  with  the  free,  independent 
spirit  of  the  youthful  traveller. 

With  a  quickened  pace  he  mounted  a  hill,  behind  which  the 
sun  had  just  retired,  and  stood  upon  the  top,  leaning  for  a 
moment  upon  his  stout  walking-stick.  The  magnificent  sunset 
of  a  mountainous  country  was  before  him ;  he  cast  an  admir 
ing  glance  at  the  clouds  in  their  regal  array  of  gold  and  purple, 
then  his  eye  rested  upon  the  valley,  and  sought  there  one 
humble,  white  cottage  ;  his  face  was  radiant  with  joy,  and  his 
lips  articulated  the  thankfulness  that  glowed  in  his  heart,  as  he 
saw  the  smoke  gracefully  curling  upward  from  its  single 
chimney. 

"  I  have  no  sweetheart,"  said  the  lad, 
"  But  absent  years  from  one  another, 
Great  was  the  longing  that  I  had, 
To  see  my  mother." 

And  he  stood  by  the  door  of  the  cottage,  and  with  trembling 
hand,  lifted  the  latch. 

"  Mother !" 

"  My  son !"  and  the  arms  of  his  mother  were  tightly  clasped 
around  the  neck  of  her  only  child. 

"  And  your  health,  how  is  it,"  eagerly  inquired  Paul  Winsor, 
as  he  seated  his  widowed  parent  in  the  cushioned  chair  by  the 
fireside.  She  replied  that  it  was  better  than  usual ;  but  as  the 
flush  of  joy  died  away,  he  perceived  that  her  -countenance  had 
the  paleness  and  sadness  that  had  long  been  habitual. 

"  And  are  you  quite  alone,  mother?" 

"  Oh  no,  Miriam  is  with  me ;  the  child  has  gone  to  gather 
some  fresh  violets  in  the  wood  just  by ;  she  remembered  that 
you  loved  them,  though  I  had  forgotten  it.  I  do  not  believe 


68  COLLEGEHONOURS. 

she  will  know  you,  Paul ;  five  years  have  made  a  wonderful 
change — stand  up ;  you  are  as  tall  as  your  dear  father  was — 
he  lacked  but  half  an  inch  of  six  feet." 

While  Winsor  was  standing,  Miriam  entered  with  a  basket 
of  violets  in  one  hand  and  a  sun-bonnet  in  the  other. 

For  a  moment  he  looked  at  "the  lovely  apparition"  in  doubt. 
The  doubt  was  mutual. 

"  Miriam,  is  it  possible !"  questioned  the  young  student. 

"  Mr.  Winsor  !  Your  violets,"  said  she,  placing  the  basket 
in  his  hands. 

"  You  do  not  seem  glad  to  see  Miriam,  my  son ;  she  has 
been  as  kind  to  me  as  an  own  daughter,"  said  the  mother,  half 
reproachfully. 

Paul  reseated  himself  by  his  mother's  side,  and  \vith  his  eyes 
still  fixed  upon  the  other  inmate  of  the  cottage,  took  a  violet 
from  the  basket,  and  inhaling  the  perfume,  said  in  an  embar 
rassed,  half-awkward  manner,  "  This  flower  is  redolent  of 
home." 

Miriam  went  to  put  away  her  bonnet,  and  perhaps  to  ar 
range  the  natural  curls  that  had  been  blown  about  her  face  by 
the  wind. 

For  five  years,  Paul  Winsor  had  supported  his  widowed 
mother  by  his  own  exertions,  and  at  the  same  time  pursued 
his  studies.  This  he  did,  by  keeping  school  during  the  vaca 
tions,  and  three  months  beside,  every  year.  During  this  time, 
he  found  literary  employment  that  was  lucrative,  and  yet  with 
all  this  accumulation  of  labour,  he  had  retained  cheerfulness 
and  health. 

Miriam  Merwin  was  the  orphan  daughter  of  a  deceased 
clergyman ;  her  small  patrimony  was  yet  sufficient  to  have 
afforded  her  a  better  abode  than  the  humble  one  she  preferred, 


COLLEGE  HONOURS.  69 

because  she  could  there  bestow  care  and  affectionate  kindness 
upon  one  whom  she  loved. 

"  And  Dinah,  how  is  she  1"  inquired  Paul. 
"  Come  to  speak  for  herself,"  replied  an  old  coloured  woman, 
hobbling  into  the  room ;  "  a  poor  sinner,  scrabbling  through 
the  world  ;  rheumatiz  in  one  leg,  and  old  age  all  over." 

Paul  grasped  the  hard  black  hand  of  the  old  servant.  Was 
she  hurt?  The  tears  certainly  sparkled  down  her  dark  cheeks, 
as  he  said,  warmly,  "  God  bless  you,  Dinah,  for  your  faithful 
ness  to  my  mother." 

As  she  spread  the  snow-white  table-cloth,  he  remarked, 
"  You  are  able  to  work  still." 

"  Not  much,"  she  replied ;  "  our  Miriam  keeps  everything 
in  prime  order.  My  gracious  !  what  a  great  strapping  fellow 
you  are,  Paul ;  if  you  had  stayed  away  a  year  or  two  longer, 
your  own  mother  would  not  have  known  you  from  Adam." 

As  Miriam  entered  the  room,  Dinah  whispered  most  audibly 
in  her  ear,  «  Shall  I  put  on  our  best  cups  and  saucers  V ' 

"  Don't  treat  me  like  a  stranger,  Dinah,"  said  Paul. 

"  That  is  just  as  Miriam  says  ;  she  always  tells  me  what  to 
do  when  the  young  gentlemen  come." 

"  So,  then,  Dinah,  you  have  gentlemen  visitors  sometimes  1" 

"Ask  Miriam,"  said  Dinah,  with  a  familiar  wink  at  the 
blushing  girl. 

"  I  think  your  tea-kettle  boils,  Dinah,"  said  she,  and  the  old, 
petted  servant  left  the  room. 

Long  after  Miriam  had  retired  that  night,  the  mother  and 
son  sat  by  the  bright  coals  of  a  wood  fire,  and  talked  over  the 
past  with  saddened,  yet  grateful  hearts.  He  was  second  in 
college,  notwithstanding  all  the  extra  labours  he  had  pej> 


70  COLLEGE   HONOURS. 

formed  ;  and  the  coming  year  would  be  able  to  devote  himself 
more  closely  to  his  collegiate  course. 

"  Thank  God,  my  son,  that  you  have  been  enabled  to  do  all 
this  from  a  sense  of  duty, — that  no  vain-glorious  ambition  has 
prompted  your  endeavours.  It  is  late  ;  let  me  join  you  in 
prayer." 

The  mother  and  son  knelt  before  God ;  and  the  earnest 
breathings  of  a  soul  in  communion  with  its  Maker,  were 
uttered  by  the  young  student. 

A  few  weeks  were  passed  in  quiet  enjoyment  at  the  cottage, 
— not  so  very  quiet  either,  for  anxieties,  doubts,  and  fears, 
haunted  the  humble  apartments.  Are  they  not  often  the  tor 
mentors  of  a  first  love  ?  Theirs  was  the  first  love  of  two 
hearts  unsullied  by  the  world,  and  the  whole  train  of  tormen 
tors  were  soon  expelled.  The  faith  of  Paul  and  Miriam  was 
plighted,  with  the  blessing  of  their  best  earthly  friend  upon 
their  betrothal. 

Winsor  returned  to  college  with  a  stronger  incentive  to 
exertion  than  ever. 


IV. 


Reginald  Norman  was  paying  a  visit  to  his  grandfather  in 
the  city. 

Judge  Norman  had  too  much  pride  of  character  to  consider 
wealth  as  adding  to  his  importance.  He  owed  his  elevation 
to  birth  and  talents ;  he  despised,  abhorred  the  purse-proud, 
yet  he  liked  the  means  and  appliances  that  wealth  procures, 
and  had  surrounded  himself  with  all  that  could  gratify  the 
most  exquisite  taste.  Great  was  his  joy  and  exultation  on 


COLLEGEHONOURS.  71 

learning  that  Reginald  had  received  the  first  honour  of  the 
class.     Directly  he  sent  for  him  to  pay  him  a  visit. 

At  a  dinner-party,  the  day  after  his  arrival,  Reginald  was 
presented  to  a  circle  of  his  grandfather's  friends.  His  self- 
esteem  carried  him  safely  through  the  ordeal  to  which  he  was 
subjected.  The  magnates  more  than  forgave  the  boldness  of 
the  lad,  and  prophesied  the  same  success  in  life  as  had  hitherto 
distinguished  his  collegiate  course. 

A  few  weeks  had  passed  away  in  the  city,  and  Reginald's 
visit  was  near  its  close ;  he  sat  in  the  splendid  library  of  his 
grandfather,  writing  a  letter. 

"  You  are  writing  to  Mrs.  Norman  ?" 
"  I  am,  sir." 

"  No  doubt  she  taught  you  to  consider  me  a  harsh,  tyranni 
cal  old  fellow  ?" 

"  Never,  sir ;  she  taught  me  to  respect  my  grandfather." 
"  That  is  strange." 
Reginald  was  sorely  puzzled. 

"  Has  she  never  told  you  that  I  disowned  your  father,  for 
marrying  contrary  to  my  advice  ?" 

"  How  can  you  suspect  her  of  such  a  falsehood  ?" 
"  It  is  the  truth.  He  thwarted  my  plans  by  marrying  a 
rich  heiress,  and  I  never  forgave  him.  He  had  a  glorious 
mind — talents  that  would  have  carried  him  to  the  highest 
place  our  country  has  to  offer,  but  he  lost  his  ambition,  or 
rather  it  was  merged  in  a  stronger  passion.  I  never  saw  him 
after  his  marriage.  Reginald,  you  are  now  the  sole  repre 
sentative  of  the  Norman  family ;  you  possess  hereditary  talent, 
and  will,  I  trust,  add  new  lustre  to  the  name.  Hitherto,  you 
have  been  successful  in  college  ;  if  you  win  the  first  honour  of 
the  Senior  Class,  I  will  give  you  twenty  thousand  dollars,  to 


72  COLLEGEHONOURS. 

enable  you  to  travel  for  two  years  in  company  with  a  tutor. 

I  wish  you  to  study  mankind,  that  you  may  be  prepared  for 

the  rough  encounter  of  political  strife." 

"  Thank  you,  sir ;  it  shall  be  as  you  wish." 

"  The  prize  is  not  yet  won — the  goal  is  still  distant." 

"  The  many  strive,  the  one  succeeds,"  said  Reginald,  in  his 

usual  proud  tone. 

"  I  have  left  you  in  my  will,  this  library,  and  nothing  more ; 

the  remainder  of  my  fortune  I  have  bequeathed  to  a  distant 

relative.     You  have  too  much  wealth  already." 

Reginald  Norman  needed  no  stronger  stimulus  to  exertion 

than  the  burning  ambition  in  his  own  bosom. 


V. 


On  his  return  to  college,  Norman  still  craved  all  the  honours 
of  a  carpet-knight.  His  taste — in  music,  in  oratory,  in  dress, 
— was  the  standard  in  college  and  out.  To  be  the  leader  of 
ton  in  college,  or  elsewhere,  requires  time,  thought,  and  the 
sacrifice  of  higher  and  better  things.  Many  an  hour  was 
spent  by  Reginald  in  consultation  with  the  artists  who  ar 
rayed  his  handsome  person,  which  he  had  to  retrieve  before  the 
midnight  lamp. 

The  year  passed  on ;  the  time  had  arrived  for  the  college 
appointments.  The  students  were  allowed  to  vote  for  the 
appointees.  Eager  canvassing  went  on ;  party  spirit  ran 
high;  the  two  candidates  for  the  valedictory,  the  highest 
honour,  Norman  and  Winsor,  were  so  nearly  equal,  that  it 
was  impossible  to  conjecture  who  would  receive  the  largest 
number  of  votes. 


COLLEGEHONOURS.  73 

A  cluster  of  eager  talkers  had  gathered  under  one  of  the 
large  elms  on  the  college  grounds. 

"  I  say,  I  shall  vote  for  Norman ;  he  is  the  man,  or  rather 
the  gentleman,  for  me,"  said  Mason  Morton,  casting  a  com 
placent  glance  at  the  gay  vest  which  he  thought  himself  happy 
to  have  purchased,  like  one  which  Norman  had  worn, — to  be 
laid  aside,  since  it  had  thus  lost  caste. 

"  Why  do  you  vote  for  Norman  ?" 

"  Because  he  will  make  an  elegant,  fashionable  appearance," 
replied  Mason. 

"  I  thought,  *  no  man  was  a  hero  to  his  valet  de  chambre.' " 

"  Is  that  intended  for  an  insult,  Tompkins  ?"  demanded 
Mason,  setting  his  arms  akimbo,  so  as  to  display  the  full  glory 
of  the  new  vest. 

"  I  merely  quoted  a  proverb ;  if  you  find  the  coat  fits,  you 
can  put  it  on,"  replied  Tompkins,  fixing  his  eyes  upon  the 
splendid  vest. 

"  You  belong  to  the  democracy,"  retorted  Mason,  con 
temptuously,  "  I  am  of  the  aristocracy." 

"  A  true  democracy  rules  our  college,  for  we  all  have  equal 
rights;  but  here,  as  elsewhere,  there  is  an  aristocracy  of 
talent,  which  cannot  be  put  down  by  the  mob  !" 

"  Do  you  mean  to  say,  Tompkins,  that  Norman  has  not  as 
much  talent  as  plodding  Winsor  ?"  demanded  another  of  the 
Norman  partisans. 

"  He  may  have  more  wildfire-genius  than  Paul  Winsor,  but 
he  does  not  deserve  the  valedictory  for  that.  Winsor  is  a 
strong  man,  a  splendid  mathematician,  a  capital  linguist,  and 
an  elegant  writer." 

"  But  as  awkward  a  speaker  as  if  he  had  swung  a  flail  all 
the  days  of  his  life." 

7 


74  COLLEGEHONOURS. 

"  No  doubt  he  has,"  responded  Mason  Morton. 

"  Nobody  minds  your  opinions,  Mason ;  you  can  adopt 
them  as  easily  as  you  do  other  cast-offs,"  replied  Tompkins. 

"  I  am  as  independent  in  my  opinions  as  in  my  dress," 
angrily  replied  the  toady. 

"  Precisely,"  said  Tompkins,  with  a  sneer. 

Other  students  now  joined  the  caucus  under  the  tree,  and 
words  had  nearly  come  to  blows,  when  a  dispersion  was 
effected  by  the  ringing  of  the  prayer-bell. 

The  votes  of  the  class  had  all  been  given  in,  and  intense 
anxiety  filled  each  beating  heart.  Never,  in  after  life,  when 
more  momentous  results  are  at  stake,  can  deeper  interest  be 
felt, — never  can  an  honour  be  more  eagerly  sought  than  this, 
the  first  goal  of  ambition,  when  the  ardour,  the  fiery  impetuo 
sity  of  youth,  has  not  been  quelled  by  disappointment. 

The  appointments  were  to  be  made  known  at  midnight. 
The  mysterious  roll  was  to  be  thrust  out  of  the  tutor's  door. 

It  was  seized  by  an  eager  hand,  and  read  aloud  to  a  mob  of 
open-mouthed  listeners. 

The  votes  of  the  class  stood — for  Reginald  Norman,  fifty- 
two  ;  for  Paul  Winsor,  forty-nine.  The  old  walls  of  the  col 
lege  rang  with  three  cheers  from  Norman's  partisans. 

As  soon  as  the  noise  subsided,  the  reader  went  on  to  an 
nounce  the  appointments  by  the  Faculty.  Paul  Winsor,  the 
first  appointment,  the  valedictory ;  Reginald  Norman,  an 
English  oration. 

The  startled  sleepers  in  the  town  were  awakened,  as  the 
thunders  of  three  times  three  arose  from  the  stout  partisans 
of  Paul  Winsor. 

One  stern  principle  had  actuated  Winsor, — a  simple,  effec 
tive  principle.  It  has  not  the  high-sounding  name  of  ambition 


COLLEGE   HONOURS.  75 

— no  halo  of  earthly  glory  surrounds  it — homely  it  may  seem, 
for  it  is  applicable  to  all  times  and  circumstances, — yet  it 
gives  unity  of  purpose,  and  dignity  to  every  action — Duty. 
Duty  to  God  and  man.  Ambition  implies  self-aggrandize 
ment;  Duty,  self-renunciation.  Ambition,  having  a  worldly 
object  to  attain,  when  that  is  reached,  "  Alps  on  Alps  arise ;" 
Duty  "  is  new  every  morning,  and  fresh  every  evening ;"  its 
motto  is — 

"  Act  in  the  living  present — 
Heart  within  and  God  o'er  head." 


VI. 


When  Mason  announced  the  unexpected  result  of  the  ap 
pointments  to  Norman,  the  anger  of  the  amazed  student  was 
fearful.  He  raged  like  a  young  tiger  ;  wild  threats  of  revenge 
upon  his  rival  were  muttered  between  his  closed  teeth. 

"  But  look  here,  Norman,"  said  Mason ;  "  you  still  can 
prove  to  the  audience  at  Commencement,  that  you  richly  de 
served  the  first  honour.  You  know  you  can  write  a  better 
oration  than  Paul  Winsor,  and  your  eloquence,  your  splendid 
elocution,  must  of  course  win  a  fashionable  assembly." 

Partially  quieted  by  this  suggestion,  hope  revived  in  the 
bosom  of  the  disappointed  Reginald.  He  had  lost  the  twenty 
thousand  and  the  tour  of  Europe,  but  he  would  show  the 
world  that  he  was  an  injured  man. 

His  conscience  might  have  told  him  that  his  gaiety  had  be 
come  dissipation,  and  a  decline  in  his  standing  in  the  class  had 
been  the  consequence. 

To  retain  popularity  among  his  partisans,  and  to  deaden  the 


76  COLLEGE   HONOURS. 

pangs  of   disappointed    ambition,   Reginald  drank   still  more 
deeply  of  the  intoxicating  cup  of  pleasure. 

A  fortnight  before  the  Commencement,  he  was  seized  with 
brain  fever.  For  a  whole  week,  his  recovery  was  doubtful. 
His  ravings  were  horrible.  Cursings  and  imprecations  were, 
in  his  delirium,  showered  upon  his  rival.  And  there  was  Paul 
Winsor  to  hear  them,  watching  by  the  bedside  of  the  invalid, 
and  ministering  to  his  wants  with  the  gentleness  of  a  sister. 

A  week  had  thus  passed,  without  one  hour  of  quietness, 
when  the  exhausted  Norman  at  length  fell  asleep.  This  sleep 
might  terminate  in  death,  or  be  the  crisis  of  the  disorder. 

Paul  watched  him  alone  that  night  with  breathless  anxiety. 
Towards  morning,  he  awoke,  calm  and  rational,  but  too  feeble 
to  speak  ;  he  motioned  for  water,  and  Paul  placed  the  cooling 
draught  to  his  lips.  Not  a  word  was  spoken.  All  the  suc 
ceeding  day,  Winsor  continued  with  him,  and  yet  he  made  no 
effort  to  speak.  As  Winsor  was  about  to  leave  him,  at  even 
ing  prayer-time,  he  carefully  gave  the  directions  of  the  phy 
sician  to  a  nurse  who  had  been  procured. 

Norman  extended  his  emaciated  hand.  "  Winsor,"  said  he, 
"  how  kind  you  are  !  None  but  a  Christian  could  have  done 
as  you  have.  I  shall  not  recover ;  forgive  and  pray  for  me. 
And,  Winsor,"  continued  he,  slipping  a  large  seal-ring  from 
his  thin  finger,  "  send  this  to  my  grandfather,  and  tell  him  that 
the  honours  of  this  world  will  not  prepare  a  soul  for  Heaven." 


VII. 


The  day  of  the  Commencement  had  arrived.  Reginald 
Norman  was  still  a  prisoner  to  disease,  although  his  life  was 
no  longer  in  danger. 


COLLEGE   HONOURS.  77 

A  gentle  tap  was  heard  at  the  door,  and  a  quick  but  faint 
"  come  in"  followed. 

The  door  opened,  and  Paul  Winsor  entered  in  his  every-day 
garb. 

"  Good  morning,  Reginald ;  the  doctor  says  you  may  take 
ices,  and  I  have  brought  you  one." 

"  Does  he  !  How  refreshing  !"  said  Reginald,  eagerly  tast 
ing  the  iced  sherbet  that  Paul  placed  before  him.  After  taking 
nearly  all  of  it,  he  left  off  abruptly,  saying,  "  I  fancied  that  it 
was  Commencement  to-day ;  but  you  are  not  in  holiday-trim, 
Paul." 

Winsor  did  not  reply. 

"  Yes,  it  is  the  day — I  know  it,"  continued  Reginald.  "  I 
have  one  great  favour  to  ask  ; — will  you  grant  it  ?" 

"  What  is  it  ?" 

"  Will  you  read  my  oration  on  the  stage.  I  know  the 
Faculty  will  give  you  permission." 

"  Not  I !  You  know  I  have  none  of  the  graces  of  oratory, 
and  I  should  not  do  it  justice." 

"  There  it  is,  in  my  portfolio.  I  must  insist  upon  this, 
although  I  know  it  is  a  weakness." 

Paul  handed  the  invalid  the  oration.  It  was  written  on  the 
most  delicate  note-paper,  and  tied  with  a  blue  riband.  "  The 
Genius  that  brooks  no  Obstacles,"  was  the  title. 

Reginald  looked  it  over  a  moment,  and,  dashing  a  tear  from 
his  eye,  handed  it  to  Paul,  saying,  "  God  interposes  obstacles, 
when  he  sees  that  it  is  for  our  good." 

Paul  could  not  refuse  a  request  thus  urged. 

In  a  brief  but  touching  manner,  he  alluded  to  the  illness  of 
his  friend,  before  reading  the  finished  and  elegant  oration,  to 
the  large  and  brilliant  assembly  of  the  College  Commencement. 

7* 


78  COLLEGEHONOURS. 

It  seemed  as  if  by  some  magical  Mesmerism,  the  spirit  of 
Reginald  Norman  had  been  transfused  into  Paul  Winsor,  for 
never  before  had  he  been  so  eloquent ;  even  his  manner  be 
came  graceful,  while  he  read  the  flowing  periods  of  his  talented 
rival. 

The  various  "  exercises"  of  the  day  were  all  over,  except 
ing  the  last;  and  the  stir,  the  general  excitement,  demonstrated 
the  interest  of  the  audience  in  the  valedictorian.  Winsor  as 
cended  the  platform  with  much  less  ease  than  he  had  done  in 
the  morning,  but  as  he  went  on,  his  awkwardness  gave  place 
to  confidence,  and  he  pronounced  an  eloquent  oration,  on 
"  Man's  Responsibility  to  his  Country  and  to  God." 

As  he  turned  to  the  class  to  address  them,  he  remembered 
that  the  majority  of  their  votes  had  been  given  to  another,  and 
yielding  to  a  spontaneous  impulse,  he  pronounced  a  glowing 
eulogium  upon  the  genius  of  their  chosen  orator,  and  then 
gave  the  valedictory  address. 

Not  a  single  member  of  the  class  walked  out  of  the  gallery 
that  day,  without  acknowledging  that  Winsor  was  the  "noblest 
Roman  of  them  all." 

There  wyas  another,  a  stranger,  w7ho  stood  ready  to  greet 
him,  as  he  passed  out  of  the  door  of  the  church,  after  the 
degrees  had  been  conferred.  It  was  Judge  Norman.  He 
took  Winsor  by  the  arm,  and  walked  with  him  across  the 
public  square  to  the  rooms  of  his  convalescent  grandson. 

He  had  received  the  news  of  Reginald's  illness,  and  had 
arrived  in  town  that  morning.  After  explaining  this  to  Win 
sor,  he  continued, 

"  Nothing  could  have  atoned  to  me  for  Reginald's  loss  of 
the  first  honour,  but  finding  you  so  worthy  of  it.  Will  you  go 
with  him  as  his  tutor,  and  travel  with  him  for  two  years  ?" 


COLLEGE  HONOURS.  79 

Paul  was  silent  for  a  moment  with  surprise,  and  then  re 
plied,  "  I  am  but  a  year  or  two  older  than  Reginald,  and,  in 
many  things,  he  is  my  superior." 

"  You  have  stability  and  force  of  character ;  you  have  won 
his  affections,  and  can  control  him  by  your  example.     His 
health  requires  the  journey — will  you  go  with  him  ?" 
Paul  hesitated.     "  I  must  consult  my  mother." 
"  Your  salary  shall  be  paid  in  advance." 
"  Thank  you,  sir ;  yet  I  must  consult  my  friends." 
"  Well,  let  us  hasten  to  the  poor  sick  boy.     He  insisted  that 
I  should  leave  him,  to  hear  your  oration ;  and  that  has  con 
firmed  the  good  opinion  which  Reginald  was  all  day  striving 
to  give  me  of  yourself." 

"  Then  it  is  his  own  request  ?" 

"  To  be  sure  it  is ;  and  I  am  now  as  anxious  as  he  is,  that 
you  should  be  his  travelling  companion,  if  you  will  not  call 
yourself  his  tutor." 

Paul  Winsor's  impatience  to  reach  home,  would  not,  at  this 
time,  brook  the  delay  of  a  pedestrian  excursion. 

There  were  affectionate  greetings,  followed  by  wonderings 
and  debatings,  on  his  arrival  at  the  cottage. 

"And  why  should  you  leave  us, to  see  foreign  lands?"  asked 
the  mother. 

And  the  question  was  repeated,  not  in  words,  but  by  the 
tearful  eyes  of  the  betrothed  Miriam. 

"  I  think  it  is  a  duty  that  I  owe  my  friend.  Besides,  I  may 
gain  that  wisdom  by  observation,  which  will  enable  me  more 
successfully  to  discharge  the  office  of  a  Christian  minister,  and, 
at  the  same  time,  I  shall  have  ample  means  for  your  support, 
my  dear  mother." 

"  And  how  soon  must  you  leave  us  ?" 


80  COLLEGE    HONOURS. 

"  In  a  month  from  this  time." 

"  Well,  my  son,  God  bless  and  reward  you  for  all  that  you 
have  done  for  your  widowed  mother.  I  consent ;  what  do 
you  say,  Miriam  ?" 

The  blushing  girl  whispered  in  her  ear,  "  I  will  stay  with 
you,  and  prepare  myself  for  the  duties  of  the  wife  of  a  Chris 
tian  minister." 


THE    INSANE   GIRL 

BY  FANNIE  OF  FARLEIOH. 
I. 

WITH  reason  unblest, 
In  weary  unrest, 

She  drags  out  her  day  ; 
None  thinketh  much  of  her, 
And  from  the  touch  of  her, 

All  shrink  away. 

II. 

Kindred  humanities, 
With  their  profanities, 

Circle  her  round ; 
Frenzied,  she  standeth  there, 
Shrieking,  in  mad  despair, 

Howling ;  chain-bound. 

III. 

Grim  faces  haunting  her, 
Rude  voices  taunting  her, 


82  THE   INSANE   GIRL. 

Ever  she  hears ; 
E'en  when  the  shadow  thrown 
On  the  wall  is  her  own, 

Strangely  she  fears. 

IV. 

When  the  night  hours  come, 
How  do  they  throng  her  room  ; 

Those  shapes  of  dread, 
Gliding  fantastic  there 
In  her  cell — everywhere — 

Over  her  head. 

V. 

Gibing  and  jeering  her — 
Mocking  and  leering  her, 

With  demon  eyes  ; 
While  as  appalled  with  dread, 
Chained  to  that  iron  bed, 

Helpless  she  lies. 

VI. 

Madly  she  shrieks  again  ! — 
Madly  she  clanks  her  chain  ! — 

Oh  !  should  this  be  ? 
Let  loose  the  fetters  there  ; 
Think  ye  her  brain  can  bear 

More  misery  ! 


THE  INSANE   GIRL.  33 

VII. 

Deem  ye  her  heart  is  steel  ? 
Or  that  she  cannot  feel 

Kind  words  and  true  ? 
Tho'  her  soul's  voice  be  dumb, 
One  day  it  may  become 

Witness  'gainst  you. 

VIII. 

Hear  ye  that  wretched  moan  ? 
Ah  !  leave  her  not  alone 

In  the  dread  dark. 
Tho'  an  extinguished  flame, 
Love  may  relight  again 

Reason's  dull  spark. 

IX. 

Give  her  more  room  and  air  ! 
Let  her  hear  words  of  prayer, 

Take  off  her  chain ; 
Bring  flowers  to  her  bed, 
Prop  up  her  weary  head, 

Poor  girl — insane ! 

X. 

Let  music  unawares, 
When  her  eye  wildly  glares, 


84  THE   INSANE   GIRL. 

Soothe  and  delight ; 
Calming  her  wildered  brain, 
Lulling,  like  drops  of  rain 

Falling  at  night. 

XI. 

If  she  has  fancies  strange, 
Seek  not  by  force  to  change 

Her  mood  of  mind  ; 
Lead  her  ail-gently  back, — 
She  hath  but  missed  the  track,- 

Her  eyes  are  blind. 

XII. 

Tell  her  that  God  above 
Gives  her  the  boon  of  love, 

As  to  us  all. 
That  if  a  sparrow  dies, 
Noteth  His  watchful  eyes, 

Even  its  fall. 

XIII. 

Tell  her  that  angels  keep 
Bright  watch  o'er  her  sleep, 

In  the  dark  hours  ; 
Whisper,  a  fairy  dwells 
In  the  cups  and  the  bells 

Of  the  fresh  flowers. 


THE   INSANE   GIRL.  95 

XIV. 

Thus  star  her  world  of  night, 
People,  with  spirits  bright, 

Nature  to  her ; 
So  shall  ye  drive  away 
Imp  and  dark  fiend  for  aye ! 

So  shall  ye  stir, 

XV. 

Memory  of  things  past, 
Till  the  right  chord  at  last 

Vibrates  again, 
Till  the  links  fitting  tight, 
Once  more  reunite 

In  her  life's  chain. 


THE    WHITE    HAND. 

MY  dear  little  lady,  that  very  white  hand, 
Which  fondly  you  cherish,  with  sorrow  I  scann'd ; 
I  knew  by  its  fairness,  and  baby-like  skin, 
A  stranger  to  labour  it  ever  had  been. 
It  sweeps  o'er  the  harp  with  a  magical  sway, 
And  nimbly  can  move  in  bewitching  crochet; 
Employments  like  these,  tho'  they  give  you  delight, 
Are  poor  preparations  for  Poverty's  night. 
Could  you  hem  a  cravat,  or  gather  a  skirt, 
Or  stitch  round  a  collar,  or  cut  out  a  shirt  ? — 
Have  you  yet  attempted  to  handle  a  broom, 
To  wash  up  the  tea-cups,  or  dust  out  a  room  ; 
To  stir  up  a  pudding,  or  roll  out  a  pie, 
To  season  a  sauce,  or  marketing  buy  ? — 
Though  these  occupations  for  you  are  quite  new, 
For  delicate  hands  there  is  something  to  do ; 
The  brow  of  the  suff'rer  they  softly  can  bathe, 
The  limb  of  the  wounded  they  gently  can  swathe ; 
The  child  and  the  aged  can  tenderly  lead, 
And  give  the  relief  that  the  indigent  need ; 
The  tears  they  can  wipe  of  affliction  and  care, 
And  fervently  clasped,  be  uplifted  in  prayer. 


THE   WIDOWER'S   DAUGHTER. 

BY  MRS.  L.  C.  TUTHILL. 

"  Maiden  !  with  the  meek  brown  eyes, 
In  whose  orbs  a  shadow  lies, 
Like  the  dusk  in  evening  skies! 
Standing,  with  reluctant  feet, 
Where  the  brook  and  river  meet ! 
Womanhood  and  childhood  fleet ! 
Gazing,  with  a  timid  glance, 
On  the  brooklet's  swift  advance, 
On  the  river's  broad  expanse  !" 

LONGFELLOW. 

IT  was  determined  that  Ruth  Eaton  should  be  neither  ro 
mantic  nor  sentimental. 

Not  a  stray  fairy  was  allowed  to  peep  into  a  sly  corner  of 
the  nursery  at  Stanville  Hall.  The  redoubtable  "Jack  the 
Giant  Killer,"  and  the  fascinating  "  Hop-o'-my-Thumb,"  were 
names  forbidden  to  be  syllabled  there ;  even  the  classic  "  Mo 
ther  Goose/'  was  under  the  ban.  Poetry  and  Imagination  ! 
Interlopers  in  a  temple  dedicated  to  utility  and  common  sense ! 

The  mother  of  Ruth  Eaton  had  been  considered  by  her 
high-born  and  wealthy  family,  romantic  and  sentimental ;  for 
she  had  returned  the  love  of  a  poor  clergyman  from  the 


88  THE    WIDOWER'S    DAUGHTER. 

United  States,  and  married  him,  leaving  her  splendid  English 
home,  to  dwell  in  a  foreign  land  with  the  man  of  her  choice. 

Only  one  bright  and  blissful  year  of  wedded  life  was  granted 
to  this  pair,  whom  truly  scriptural  bonds  had  united.  Love, 
strong  as  human  heart  could  feel,  on  the  part  of  the  husband  ; 
love  and  profound  reverence  on  the  weaker  side.  Yet,  with  a 
fond  and  natural  yearning  for  her  native  land,  Mrs.  Eaton 
requested,  in  her  last  moments,  that  her  infant,  then  only  a 
month  old,  should,  when  three  years  of  age,  be  sent  to  her 
brother  in  England,  to  receive  an  English  education. 

It  was  tearing  open  wounds  that  had  not  yet  healed,  when 
the  Rev.  Mr.  Eaton  suffered  a  second  bereavement  by  parting 
with  his  little  Ruth;  but  the  slightest  request  of  his  departed 
wife,  was  sacred  to  the  sorrowing  husband.  His  house  was, 
indeed,  left  to  him  desolate,  when  he  sent  from  him  his  lovely 
little  girl,  with  her  faithful  nurse. 

Mrs.  Collins  and  Ruth  arrived  safely  in  England,  and  were 
kindly  received  by  the  Hon.  Mr.  and  Mrs.  Stanville,  at  Stan- 
ville  Hall.  They  had  no  children  of  their  own,  and  were 
charmed  with  the  opportunity  thus  offered  of  testing  their 
system  of  education.  That  system,  as  has  been  hinted,  was 
the  anti-romantic.  Beautiful  it  was  hoped  Ruth  Eaton  would 
be,  intellectual  perhaps,  graceful  and  well-bred  of  course,  and 
if  she  should  happen  to  become  proud,  worldly,  cunning,  why, 
how  could  they  help  it  ?  They  need  not  try,  for  such  things 
would  happen  in  families  of  distinction. 

The  care  and  culture  of  the  child, — physical,  mental,  and 
moral, — were  left  entirely  to  her  nurse,  Mrs.  Collins,  until  she 
had  attained  her  seventh  year,  with  the  strict  prohibitions  that 
have  been  mentioned.  Nurse  Collins  had  two  standards  of 


THE   WIDO  WER'S   DAUGHTER.  89 

opinion  and  action ;  the  first,  as  expressed  in  her  own  words, 
was,  "the  Bible  says  so;"  the  second,  "they  do  so  in  Boston." 

There  was  one  person  at  Stanville  Hall  to  whom  Mrs. 
Collins  could  dilate,  to  her  heart's  content,  on  her  own  beloved 
country;  that  person  was  her  little  Ruth.  To  a  woman  of 
her  education, — the  common-school  education  of  New  Eng 
land, — the  society  and  conversation  of  the  servants  at  Stan 
ville  Hall  seemed  low  and  disgusting  ;  and,  as  she  had  not  the 
gift  of  silence,  she  talked  all  the  more  to  her  bright  little 
charge. 

Ruth  never  tired  of  the  stories  which  nurse  related.  No 
knight-errant  of  chivalry  ever  dazzled  the  youthful  imagina 
tion  and  won  the  youthful  heart,  as  did  the  hero  whom  Mrs. 
Collins  portrayed  to  the  imagination  and  heart  of  Ruth  Eaton, 
— that  hero, — sans  peur  et  sans  reprochc, — was  Washington. 

The  story  of  St.  George  and  the  Dragon  was  never  told  to 
juvenile  listener  with  more  thrilling  eloquence,  than  the  nurse 
imparted  to  the  adventure  of  ^General  Putnam  and  the  wolf. 
Moreover,  the  memory  of  the  nurse  was  so  well  stored  with 
the  legends  of  her  native  land,  that  she  could  relate  as  many 
stories  as  the  immortal  Schezerade. 

Ruth  was  nearly  seven  years  of  age  when  she  was  trans 
ferred  from  the  affectionate,  earnest  teaching  of  the  good 
nurse,  to  a  reverend  tutor,  as  awkward  and  as  learned  as 
Dominie  Sampson,  but  less  kind  and  gentle  than  that  simple- 
hearted  individual.  His  harshness  and  severity  had,  in  fact, 
recommended  him  to  Mr.  Stanville,  and  given  him  the  com 
fortable  home  and  salary  that  he  now  enjoyed.  He  was  per 
fectly  willing  to  carry  out,  to  the  full  extent,  the  favourite  sys 
tem  which  had  been  devised  by  the  worldly  wisdom  of  his 
honourable  employers. 


90  THE   WIDOWER'S    DAUGHTER. 

There  was  no  tendency  to  sentiment  in  the  Rev.  Martin 
Bradstreet : 

"  A  primrose  on  the  river's  brim, 
A  yellow  primrose  was  to  him, 
And  it  was  nothing  more." 


The  mind  of  Ruth  Eaton  had  expanded  freely  and  naturally, 
and,  of  course,  healthfully ;  besides,  it  was  a  well-organized 
mind.  In  a  school,  or  even  with  partial  parents,  she  might 
have  been  called  talented,  or  a  genius ;  happily,  she  never 
heard  anything  of  the  kind  suggested. 

Ruth  learned  her  lessons  thoroughly,  and  recited  them  with 
promptness.  Mr.  Bradstreet  went  through  with  them  mecha 
nically,  and  never,  in  the  course  of  seven  whole  years,  did  he 
utter  a  word  to  his  pupil  on  any  other  topic  than  that  which 
was  contained  in  the  daily  lessons.  He  served  the  purpose  of 
bringing  out  the  knowledge  she  acquired,  in  the  same  manner 
as  the  black-board ;  indeed,  as  he  always  sat  precisely  in  the 
same  spot  in  the  library,  and  wore  the  same  sombre  suit,  he 
seemed  to  Ruth  a  living  black-board. 

At  the  age  of  fourteen,  she  was  to  pass  from  under  his 
rigid  rule,  into  the  polishing  hands  of  a  French  governess. 
The  task  of  refining  and  polishing,  was  to  be  effected  without 
softening  the  material.  Of  course,  much  care  was  taken  to 
procure  a  lady  who  could  accomplish  this  difficult  task.  A 
venerable  personage  of  Fancien  regime  was  at  length  obtained, 
— a  world-worn  veteran,  whose  maxims  would  have  delighted 
Chesterfield  and  Rochefoucault. 

The  black-board  was  changed  for  a  garrulous  parrot,  whose 
opinions  were  as  foreign  to  Ruth  as  the  language  in  which 
they  wrere  uttered. 


THE  WIDOWER'S  DAUGHTER.         91 

At  eighteen,  Ruth  Eaton  was  considered  sufficiently  learned 
and  accomplished  to  be  emancipated  from  tasks  and  stocks, 
tutor  and  governess, — her  education  completely  finished. 

The  sweet  companionship  of  children  of  her  own  age  had 
been  denied  her ;  nor  had  she  enjoyed  the  still  more  charming 
intercourse  of  girlhood.  No  parental  communion  from  day  to 
day  called  forth  her  warm  affections. 

Mr.  and  Mrs.  Stanville  were  brilliant  petrifactions  in  the 
wrorld  of  fashion ;  that  was  the  universe  to  them  ;  and  they 
were  contented  so  long  as  they  maintained  a  conspicuous 
place  among  their  fellow  stalactites  and  stalagmites. 

And  Ruth,  she  knew  nothing  as  yet  of  that  dazzling  world, 
for  which  the  chosen  system  of  education  was  to  prepare  her. 
She  had  her  small  sphere  of  duty,  where  she  fulfilled  all  that 
was  required  of  her,  and  she  had  her  own  dear,  delightful 
inner  world,  into  which  she  could  retire  and  reign,  undisputed 
sovereign.  There,  she  revelled  in  the  creations  of  her  own 
bright  fancy.  The  flowers,  the  trees,  the  clouds,  the  stars, 
had  been  her  bosom  friends  and  teachers, — 

"  Prompters  to  her  dreams  of  heaven/' 

The  harshness  and  coldness  of  her  outer  life  had  not  re 
pressed  the  God-given  sense  of  the  beautiful,  the  deep,  earnest 
longings  of  her  soul,  for  the  true  and  the  good. 

Ruth  Eaton  was,  in  the  highest  and  noblest  sense  of  that 
much-abused  term,  romantic.  That  is,  she  revolted  from  the 
dull  earthliness  of  every-day  life,  as  it  was  exhibited  in  the 
family  of  her  uncle,  and  yearned  after  a  life  more  spiritual 
and  beautiful.  She  craved  a  resting-place  for  love — boundless 
scope  for  sentiment  and  imagination — freedom  to  act  nobly — 
sympathy  with  humanity. 


92  THE   WIDOWER'S   DAUGHTER. 

Books  of  poetry  had  been  denied  her,  but  God's  Creation  to 
her  was  written  all  over,  in  a  richer  language  than  that  of 
immortal  bards. 

She  had  grown,  like  a  plant  without  dew  and  sunshine, 
which,  in  some  mysterious  way,  has  remained  pure  and  fresh, 
as  if  nourished  by  the  most  genial  influences  of  sun  and  sky. 
The  poetry  of  one  book,  however,  she  had  richly  enjoyed, — 
the  inspired  poetry  of  the  Bible.  Her  first  tears  of  sensibility 
had  been  shed  over  the  story  of  Joseph;  the  first  glow  of 
enthusiasm  in  her  heart,  had  been  kindled  by  the  disinterested 
love  of  Jonathan  for  the  successor  to  his  father's  throne, — the 
youthful  David. 

Among  her  heroines,  were  the  beautiful  Rachel,  the  valor 
ous  Deborah,  and  her  own  sweet  namesake, — the  affectionate 
Ruth. 

The  village  church,  with  its  lofty  columns,  its  fretted  vault, 
and  storied  windows,  its  pealing  organ  and  sacred  hymns,  its 
solemn  rites  and  sublime  liturgy,  had  excited  her  imagination 
and  moved  her  heart,  and  Ruth  was  a  sincere  worshipper. 

The  Hon.  Mr.  and  Mrs.  Stanville  had  contented  themselves 
with  forming  a  system,  and  leaving  others  to  carry  it  into 
effect;  they  knew  nothing  as  yet  of  the  result.  They  saw 
that  she  was  graceful  as  the  fawns  that  bounded  through  the 
park,  that  her  manners  were  refined  and  delicate,  and  that  her 
countenance  was  beautiful,  and  they  valued  and  admired  her, 
much  as  they  did  the  pictures  that  their  own  taste  had  selected 
and  their  own  money  had  purchased ; — they  felt  pride  and 
self-gratulation,  without  affection. 

But  the  time  had  arrived  when  Ruth  was  to  be  presented  to 
their  world.  She  was  to  be  brought  out  first  at  Stanville  Hall, 


THE  WIDOWER'S  DAUGHTER.         93 

where  a  large  number  of  their  friends  were  to  pass  a  few 
weeks  of  the  summer ;  and  the  coming  winter,  in  London. 

Confident  of  the  success  of  their  own  wise  forethought,  Mr. 
and  Mrs.  Stanville  had  often  spoken  of  their  niece,  as  a  well- 
behaved,  nice  person,—  an  exceedingly  discreet  young  lady. 

Before  the  crowd  of  fashionable  visiters  who  had  met  at 
Stanville  Hall,  Ruth  was  calm  and  reserved ;  they  too  were 
reserved  and  distant;  there  was  no  congeniality  between  them. 
They  knew  not  why,  but  they  felt  that  she  was  not  of  them. 

They  criticised  her  person,  her  air,  her  voice,  her  musical 
execution,  and  pronounced  her,  comme  il  faut,  yet  they  whis 
pered  among  themselves,  that  she  was  "  slightly  peculiar," — a 
stigma  upon  a  denizen  of  the  fashionable  world,  where  all,  to 
pass  as  coin  of  the  realm,  must  bear  the  same  stamp  and 
superscription. 

After  breakfast  one  morning,  Ruth  left  the  gossip  of  the 
drawing-room,  to  enjoy  a  quiet  hour  by  herself.  She  sought 
one  of  her  favourite  haunts,  and  seated  herself  upon  a  rustic 
bench  beneath  the  wide  shadow  of  a  venerable  oak. 

And  there  sat  the  matter-of-fact  Miss  Eaton,  looking  like 
the  living  impersonation  of  romance ; — her  hair  loosened  from 
the  comb,  whose  task  of  confining  it  had  been  so  recently 
begun,  that  it  seemed  not  yet  to  have  acquired  the  habit ;  her 
head  resting  on  one  bended  arm,  and  a  book  upon  the  bench, 
over  which  she  was  leaning. 

She  was  startled  from  this  attitude, — the  perfect  repose  of 
which  would  have  charmed  a  painter, — startled,  by  the  in 
quiry  : 

"  Does  Miss  Eaton  prefer  reading  and  solitude,  to  conversa 
tion  and  society  ?" 

She  looked  up,  and  saw  by  her   side,  a  tall   gentleman, 


94  THE    WIDOWER'S   DAUGHTER. 

whose  lofty  forehead,  that  tell-tale  Time  had  labelled  with 
unmistakeable  lines — tokens  of  deep  thought  rather  than  ad 
vanced  years. 

Ruth  replied  to  the  question  with  perfect  simplicity  and 
truthfulness, 

"  I  do,  sir." 

"  Then  I  ought  to  apologize  for  intruding  upon  you,  and 
leave  you  to  your  own  enjoyment ;  but  pardon  me  if  I  first 
inquire  what  new  novel  robs  us  of  your  sweet  society  ?" 

"  I  have  never  read  a  novel,  sir." 

"Never  read  a  novel!  Yes,  yes,  I  remember  now  the 
favourite  anti-romantic  system  of  education  that  was  devised 
by  your  relatives.  Perhaps  by  this  time  they  allow  you  to 
read  poetry.  Is  it  so  ?" 

"  This  is  (an  ancient  book  of  poetry  and  history,"  replied 
Ruth,  with  a  smile. 

«  The  Iliad  ?" 

"TheJBible." 

"  The  Bible  !"  exclaimed  the  gentleman,  with  a  start  of  sur 
prise,  quite  too  perceptible  for  one  who  was  considered  per 
fectly  well-bred.  "The  Bible!  Pardon  me,  Miss  Eaton;  are 
you  not  a  little  peculiar  in  your  taste  ?" 

"  I  was  not  aware  of  any  peculiarity  in  my  taste  ;  I  thought 
everybody  read  and  admired  the  Bible." 

"  Young  ladies  seldom  steal  away  from  the  gay  and  the 
gifted,  to  read  it  alone.  You  are,  however,  I  believe,  on  one 
side,  descended  from  the  Puritans,  and  may  have  inherited 
from  them  this  singular  taste." 

"  I  am  by  birth  a  native  of  New  England,  and  I  love  my 
country.  Unfortunately,  I  left  it  too  early  to  remember  any 
thing  distinctly  about  it,  but,  for  several  years,  I  have  corre- 


THE   WIDOWER'S   DAUGHTER.  95 

sponded  with  my  father,  and  my  nurse  is  a  Massachusetts 
\voman." 

"  A  real  Indian  woman  ! — A  squaw !" 

"  Oh,  no,  sir  !  A  white  woman  from  Boston,  in  Massachu 
setts  ;  a  town  of  which  most  Englishmen  have  heard.  My 
good  nurse  left  her  home  to  come  with  me  to  this  country ; 
and,  as  she  dearly  loves  her  native  land,  she  has  not  allowed 
me  to  forget  it.  For  two  of  the  greatest  pleasures  of  my  life, 
I  am  indebted  to  her, — an  intimate  acquaintance  with  the 
Bible,  and  a  just  appreciation  of  the  country  of  my  excellent 
father." 

"  You  astonish  me,  Miss  Eaton ;  your  nurse  can  be  no 
common  person." 

"  Mrs.  Collins  is  a  strong-minded,  warm-hearted  woman ; 
she  is  as  familiar  with  the  history  of  the  United  States,  as 
Lord  Brougham  is  with  the  history  of  Great  Britain." 

"  And  poetry  has  been  entirely  prohibited  in  the  course  of 
your  education  !  You  know  nothing  of  it  excepting  from  the 
Bible  ?" 

"  Is  jthere  not  poetry  everywhere  ?  The  waving  of  a 
branch,  or  the  rustling  of  a  leaf,  may  fill  the  mind  with  poetic 
thought." 

"  But  books  of  poetry  ?" 

"I  have  read  Pope's  Essay  on  Man,  Cowper's  Task,  the 
Paradise  Regained,  and  a  few  other  poems.  Besides,  my 
father  has  occasionally  sent  me  fugitive  pieces  of  poetry, 
written  by  his  fellow-countrymen." 

u  American  poetry  !  That  must  be  verse  of  a  monstrously 
mechanical  manufacture.  What  does  it  sound  like  ?" 

"  It  sounds  like  this,"  said  Ruth,  her  cheeks  flushing  with 
enthusiasm,  and  her  eyes  kindling  with  the  fervour  of  patriotic 


96  THE    WIDOWER'S   DAUGHTER. 

feeling,   as  she  repeated  Whittier's   beautiful   lines   on   New 
England  : 

"  Land  of  the  forest  and  the  rock — 
Of  dark-blue  lake  and  mighty  river — 
Of  mountains  reared  aloft  to  mock 
The  storm's  career,  the  lightning's  shock — 
My  own  green  land  for  ever ! 
Land  of  the  beautiful  and  brave — 
The  freeman's  home,  the  martyr's  grave — 
The  nursery  of  giant  men, 
Whose  deeds  have  linked  with  every  glen, 
And  every  hill,  and  every  stream, 
The  romance  of  some  warrior-dream  ! 
O  !  never  may  a  son  of  thine, 
Where'er  his  wandering  steps  incline, 
Forget  the  sky  which  bent  above 
His  childhood  like  a  dream  of  love — 
The  stream  beneath  the  green  hill  flowing — 
The  broad-armed  trees  above  it  growing — 
The  clear  breeze  through  the  foliage  blowing  ; 
Or  hear,  unmoved,  the  taunt  of  scorn 
Breathed  o'er  the  brave  New  England  born." 

"  You  are  a  dangerous  young  rebel,  Miss  Eaton;  you  would 
almost  make  me  turn  traitor  to  my  country,  and  acknowledge 
that  there  can  be  English  poetry  not  written  by  an  English 
man.  But  there  comes  your  honourable  uncle ;  no  doubt 
seeking  for  his  truant  niece." 

Ruth  immediately  stepped  forward  to  meet  him,  saying,  in 
a  quiet,  subdued  tone,  "  Did  you  take  the  trouble  to  look  after 
me,  Uncle  Stanville?" 

"Excuse  me,  Mr.  Balmley,"  said  he,  turning  to  the  tall 
gentleman,  "  I  did  not  know  that  you  were  with  Miss  Eaton. 
Mrs.  Stanville  has  been  wondering  why  she  left  the  drawing- 


THE    WIDOWER'S   DAUGHTER.  97 

"  It  was  so  stupid  there,  I  glided  out  of  the  house  to  pass  an 
hour  or  two  under  my  favourite  tree,  alone."  Ruth  gave  a 
marked  emphasis  to  the  last  word. 

"Favourite  tree!"  exclaimed  Mr.  Stanville.  "Young  ladies 
should  not  have  favourite  trees." 

"  How  can  they  help  it,  sir  ?  Trees  are  not  all  alike  ;  some 
are  far  more  picturesque  and  beautiful  than  others.  Look  at 
that  noble  monarch  of  the  woods,"  continued  Ruth,  turning 
and  pointing  to  the  tree  under  which  she  had  been  sitting ;  "  I 
fancy  that  the  Druids  might  have  worshipped  there;  and  I 
render  it  a  kind  of  homage,  that  is  not,  I  trust,  unchristian." 

The  amazed  Mr.  Stanville !  His  countenance  bore  ludicrous 
testimony  to  his  amazement ;  but  Mr.  Balmley,  seeming  not  to 
notice  it,  said : 

"And  you  love  solitary  w7alks, Miss  Eaton,  and  enjoy  poetry 
and  sentiment,  and,  above  all,  admire  New  England  and  the 
Bible  ?" 

"  A  strange  category  !"  replied  Ruth,  "  and  yet  I  like  them 
all;  they  are  things  which  one  would  never  dream  of  not 
liking.  Could  one  live  without  loving  all  beautiful  things  ?" 

"Ruth  Eaton,  are  you  beside  yourself? — Absolutely  de 
mented  ?"  demanded  Mr.  Stanville,  in  an  angry  tone. 

"  What  have  I  done  ?"  exclaimed  the  bewildered,  uncon 
scious  Ruth. 

"  Spoken  like  a  silly,  sentimental  young  girl,"  was  the  reply. 

"  Forgive  me,  sir,  if  I  have  offended  you ;  I  am  young  and 
foolish ;  time  will  remedy  one  fault,  and  perhaps  it  may  the 
other." 

Without  replying,  the  offended  Mr.  Stanville  turned  away, 
and  hastened  towards  the  house.  Ruth  and  Mr.  Balmley  fol 
lowed  in  silence. 

9 


98  THE   WIDOWER'S   DAUGHTER. 

II. 

Stanville  Hall  was  so  full  of  guests,  that  Ruth  had  given  up 
her  own  rooms  and  taken  one  that  had  been  hastily  fitted  up 
with  old  furniture,  collected  from  various  parts  of  the  mansion. 
A  nondescript  article,  between  bureau  and  dressing-table,  served 
the  purpose  of  the  latter ;  upon  it  was  a  small  mirror  in  an 
ebony  frame. 

Before  this  mirror  sat  Ruth  Eaton,  apparently  unconscious 
that  her  fair  self  was  there  reflected ;  Mrs.  Collins,  whose  duties 
as  nurse  had  been  merged  in  those  of  the  femme  de  chambre, 
was  arranging  the  hair  of  her  young  mistress.  The  Rev.  Mr. 
Eaton,  when  he  consented  to  part  with  Ruth,  had  demanded 
that  Mrs.  Collins  should  have  the  charge  of  his  child  in  these 
capacities,  and  it  had  been  granted. 

Ruth  was  thoughtful  and  abstracted ;  Mrs.  Collins,  when  she 
had  plaited  the  hair  of  the  preoccupied  maiden,  placed  around 
her  head  a  wreath  of  natural  rose-buds,  and  as  she  did  so, 
was  chatting  away  all  to  herself: 

"  I  wore  just  such  white  rose-buds,  the  day  that  I  was  mar 
ried  ;  emblems  of  purity  and  innocence,  as  my  minister  said. 
My  beautiful  buds  came  from  the  tall  white  rose-bush,  in  Ma 
dam  Eaton's  front-yard ;  I  wonder  if  it  stands  there  still  ? 
Your  father  likes  these  roses ;  your  grandmother,  Miss  Ruth, 
was  one  of  the  saints  upon  earth :  she  is  now  in  heaven.  St. 
Paul  has  not  forbidden  rose-buds,  as  he  has  gold  and  pearls. 
There  now,  you  look  just  like  your  own  mother ;  poor  dear 
lady  that  she  was ;  you  don't  favour  the  Batons.  Your  father 
would  admire  to  see  you  at  this  moment,  the  very  image  of 
your  mother,  Miss  Ruth;  do  you  hear  what  I  say?" 

She  was  interrupted  by  a  knock  of  the  door.  It  was  a  ser 
vant  with  a  small  parcel,  for  Miss  Eaton. 


THE    WIDOWER'S   DAUGHTER.  99 

It  contained  a  letter  from  her  father,  a  couple  of  books,  and 
his  likeness  in  miniature. 

"  From  Boston  ?"  inquired  Mrs.  Collins. 

"  Yes ;  only  thirteen  days  since." 

"  Dear  old  Boston  !  The  pride  of  the  earth  !  If  I  could  only 
see  the  tip-top  of  the  State  House,  it  would  do  my  old  eyes 
more  good  than  all  the  fine  sights  of  London." 

Though  anxious  to  hear  the  contents  of  the  letter,  and  very 
curious  about  the  nice  little  parcel,  that  had  not  yet  been 
opened,  Mrs.  Collins  left  Ruth  for  awhile  alone. 

Before  she  had  finished  the  letter,  her  eyes  were  blinded 
with  tears.  She  tore  open  the  envelope  from  the  miniature 
and  gazed,  long  and  wistfully,  upon  the  face  of  her  father. 

Again  she  reverted  to  the  letter. 

"  Fifteen  years  have  passed,  since  I  parted  with  my  sweet 
little  Ruth.  Your  arms  were  clasped  so  firmly  around  my 
neck,  when  I  was  about  to  leave  you,  that  I  had  to  tear  myself 
from  you.  From  the  lovely  child  to  the  young  lady,  how 
great  the  change !  Now,  you  are  perhaps  estranged  from 
me ;  I  should  not  know  my  own  darling.  Look,  my  child,  at 
the  face  of  your  father,  as  the  painter  has  delineated  it.  I  have 
left  youth  far  behind;  already  age  has  sprinkled  among  the 
dark  locks,  silvery  tokens  of  my  progress  towards  the  grave. 
Sickness,  sorrow,  and  loneliness,  have  doubtless  increased 
these  tokens,  tenfold." 

Ruth  again  dwelt  long  upon  the  mournful  countenance 
before  her.  The  expression  of  powerful  intellect,  softened  and 
refined  by  piety,  was  in  perfect  accordance  with  her  own  pre 
vious  conceptions ;  but  the  sadness  and  extreme  pallor  struck 
her  with  surprise  and  alarm.  Again  she  read : — 

"  My  daughter,  the  home  to  which  I  invite  you,  is  the  simple 


100  THE    WIDOWER'S   DAUGHTER. 

parsonage  of  a  plain  country  clergyman.  Can  you  cheerfully 
consent  to  leave  the  splendid  mansion  of  your  uncle,  and  pre 
side  over  my  humble  home?  If  I  have  read  the  character  of 
my  Ruth  aright  in  her  letters,  she  will  hasten  to  gladden  her 
father's  lonely  dwelling  with  her  presence.  But  observe,  my 
dear  child,  I  do  not  command,  I  only  invite  you  to  come 
home." 

"  Home,  home !"  repeated  Ruth  in  a  voice,  softened  by  ten 
der  emotion. 

"  I  have  made  every  needful  arrangement,"  continued  her 
father,  "  with  reference  to  your  voyage  across  the  Atlantic. 
My  old  friend,  John  Hancock  Lee,  will  meet  you  and  our 
good  Mrs.  Collins,  in  Liverpool.  He  will  send  you  his  address, 
and  tell  you  what  vessel  he  is  to  take  on  his  return. 

"  May  our  heavenly  Father  guide  you,  and  if  it  be  his  holy 
will,  bring  you  safely  to  the  arms  of  your  father." 

The  summons  to  dinner  was  unheeded.  A  servant  was 
sent  with  a  request  from  Mrs.  Stanville,  that  Miss  Eaton 
would  immediately  take  her  seat  at  the  table.  Ruth  sent  an 
apology,  a  true  one,  for  she  had  indeed  both  headache  and 
heartache. 

Mrs.  Collins,  on  seeing  the  miniature,  was  so  grieved  at  the 
change  that  had  taken  place  in  Mr.  Eaton,  that  the  sadness  of 
Ruth  was  deepened,  and  her  anxiety  increased. 

Soon  after  the  company  rose  from  table,  Ruth  received 
a  summons  from  her  uncle  to  meet  him  in  his  library.  She 
went  with  a  beating  heart. 

Mr.  Stanville  handed  a  chair  with  the  most  punctilious 
politeness,  and  without  the  ceremony  of  a  preamble,  said,  as  if 
it  were  an  expected  event, 

"  Ruth,  my  dear,  Mr.  Balmley  has  proposed  for  you." 


THE    WIDOWER'S   DAUGHTER.  10 1 

"  Proposed !  What  has  he  proposed  for  me  ?"  inquired 
Ruth,  with  unaffected  surprise. 

"  Himself." 

"  Mr.  Balmley !     I  am  almost  a  stranger  to  him." 

"By  no  means;  he  has  heard  much  of  you  from  your  aunt, 
and  has  her  good  wishes  as  well  as  mine,  for  his  success.  He 
has  an  immense  fortune,  and  is  heir  to  an  earldom  on  the  death 
of  an  uncle." 

Ruth  remained  silent  with  astonishment. 

Mr.  Stanville  continued : 

"  I  depend  upon  your  acting  in  a  manner  becoming  the  edu 
cation  you  have  received.  No  silly  romance.  Mr.  Balmley 
is  not  to  be  trifled  with.  Shall  I  summon  him  to  receive  your 
acceptance  ?" 

"  No,  sir ;  I  am  going  home." 

"  Home  !     This  is  your  home." 

"  My  home  is  with  my  father,  in  New  England.  I  have 
received  a  letter  from  him  inviting  me  to  come  to  him.  He  is 
desolate  and  sad,  and  it  is  my  duty  and  my  pleasure  to  go  to 
him.  I  am  truly  grateful  for  all  the  kindness  shown  to  me  by 
yourself  and  my  aunt,  and  must  beg  that  you  will  add  still 
another  obligation,  by  being  the  bearer  of  my  refusal  to  Mr. 
Balmley." 

"  Ruth  Eaton,  you  shall  not  return  to  'New  England ;  you 
shall  marry  Mr.  Balmley." 

Ruth  rose  to  leave  the  library. 

"  Be  seated,"  said  Mr.  Stanville,  at  the  same  time  ringing  a 
bell.  A  servant  appeared,  and  was  despatched  for  Mr.  Balm- 
ley.  As  soon  as  that  gentleman  entered  the  library,  Mr.  Stan 
ville  said,  in  the  blandest  possible  tone,  although  his  face  was 
flushed  with  anger, 


102  THE   WIDOWER'S   DAUGHTER. 

"  Henry,  plead  your  own  cause,  as  eloquently  as  you  do  the 
best  interests  of  your  country  in  Parliament,  and  there  is  no 
doubt  of  your  success." 

Mr.  Balmley  repeated  the  proposals  made  by  Mr.  Stanville ; 
but  it  is  doubtful  if  his  eloquence  was  superior  to  that  of  other 
men  on  similar  occasions.  It  is  not  the  field  for  eloquence. 

Ruth,  perhaps,  had  the  advantage  in  this  respect.  She  gave 
Mr.  Balmley  a  brief  narrative  of  her  uneventful  life ; — the 
sorrow  of  her  father  at  parting  with  her  ;  the  loneliness  of  her 
own  heart  through  childhood  and  even  to  the  present  hour ; 
her  deep,  intense  love  for  her  native  land  ;  her  desire  to  cheer 
and  aid  her  father  in  those  arduous  duties  which  were  bring 
ing  upon  him  premature  age ;  and  she  concluded  with  an 
earnest  request,  that  Mr.  Balmley  would  persuade  her  aunt 
and  uncle  to  allow  her  to  go  home. 

"  I  admire  the  nobleness  of  your  sentiments,"  replied  Mr. 
Balmley.  "  That  peculiarity  in  your  character,  which  has 
been  termed  romance,  perhaps  more  properly  belongs  to  me, 
and  has  led  me  to  form  those  presumptuous  wishes  which  I 
have  expressed.  Disgusted  with  the  heartlessness,  the  grasp 
ing  worldliness  of  women  of  fashion,  I  have  waited  for  several 
years,  hoping  to  meet  some  true  and  simple-minded  girl,  who 
would  not  be  attracted  by  the  wealth  which  I  unfortunately 
possess.  In  seeking  for  a  wife,  I  wished  for  a  friend — for 
intellectual  companionship — for  sympathy  ;  moreover,  for  a 
guide  in  those  paths  in  which  men  too  rarely  walk." 

"  Then  you  need  some  one  more  wise  and  more  experienced 
than  Ruth  Eaton." 

"  I  need  just  the  wisdom  that  you  possess,  Miss  Eaton  ;  the 
wisdom  that  is  not  of  this  world,  for  I  am  satiated  with  its 
follies  and  its  pleasures ;  I  need  a  guiding  angel,  whose  sweet 


THE    WIDOWER'S   DAUGHTER.  ]Q3 

influence  will  win  me  to  a  better  life.  But,  as  you  have  other 
andjiigher  duties,  I  must  relinquish  my  hopes.  I  will  endea 
vour  to  persuade  your  friends  to  part  with  you,  though  it 
seems  a  cruel  task  ;  and  if  you  will  allow  me  to  do  so,  I  will 
seek  Mr.  Lee,  in  Liverpool,  and  learn  from  him  what  arrange 
ments  he  has  made  for  you,  and  your  faithful  Massachusetts 
woman." 

"  You  are  too  kind,  Mr.  Balmley,"  said  Ruth,  with  the  glit 
tering  tears  upon  her  cheeks. 

Mr.  Balmley  rose  and  left  the  library. 


III. 


One  week  had  rapidly  glided  away  in  Liverpool. 

The  farewells  had  all  been  spoken,  and  Ruth  and  her  faith 
ful  nurse  were  losing  sight  of  the  shores  of  England,  in  the 
good  ship  which  rapidly  bore  them  over  the  waves. 

But  why  sits  Ruth  Eaton  so  mournfully  gazing  upon  those 
retreating  shores  ?  She  had  there  learned  to  love  the  beauti 
ful  ;  and  now  her  memory  lingered  with  fond  delight  among 
the  venerable  trees,  the  green  glades,  and  sweet  flowers  of 
Stanville  Park.  Gratitude,  too,  throbbed  at  her  heart.  Al 
though  her  uncle  and  aunt  had  educated  her  to  gratify  their 
own  ambitious  views,  and  had  never  drawn  her  closely  to 
their  affections,  she  now  remembered  only  their  kindness. 
The  character  of  that  friend  who  had  enabled  her  so  success 
fully  to  accomplish  her  wishes,  now  appeared  inexpressibly 
noble  and  excellent.  With  that  strange  perversity  in  human 
nature,  which  brightens  blessings  as  they  take  their  flight,  his 
fine  person,  his  dignified  manliness,  his  disinterested  and  deli- 


104  THE   WIDOWER'S   DAUGHTER. 

cate  kindness,  were  viewed  through  a  well-known  magnifying 
medium ;  his  tender  farewell  lingered  like  sad  music  upon  her 
spirit. 


IV. 


Mr.  Eaton  might  have  sat  for  the  portrait  when  Dryden 
drew  his  justly-admired  "  Country  Parson." 

"  His  eyes  diffused  a  venerable  grace, 
And  charity  itself  was  in  his  face  ; 
Rich  was  his  soul,  though  his  attire  was  poor, 
(As  God  had  clothed  his  own  ambassador;) 
Nothing  reserved  or  sullen  was  to  see, 
But  sweet  regards  and  pleasing  sanctity. 
He  bore  his  great  commission  in  his  look, 
But  sweetly-tempered  awe,  and  softened  all  he  spoke. 
He  preached  the  joys  of  heaven,  and  pains  of  hell, 
And  warned  the  sinner  with  becoming  zeal ; 
But  on  eternal  mercy  loved  to  dwell ; 
He  taught  the  gospel  rather  than  the  law, 
And  forced  himself  to  drive,  but  loved  to  draw. 

Wide  was  his  parish  ;  not  contracted  close 
In  streets,  but  here  and  there  a  straggling  house, 
Yet  still  he  was  at  hand,  without  request, 
To  serve  the  sick,  to  succour  the  distress' d. 
His  preaching  much,  but  more  his  practice  wrought, 
A  living  sermon  of  the  truths  he  taught, 
For  this  by  rules  severe  his  life  he  squared, 
That  all  might  see  the  doctrine  which  they  heard." 

His  parsonage  was  sheltered  by  elms,  whose  wraving  branches 
swept  over  the  roof.  It  was  in  the  midst  of  one  of  those  quiet, 
beautiful  villages  which  adorn  New  England. 

The  small  church,  with  its  gothic  windows,  and  graceful 
spire,  closed  the  vista  of  the  long  avenue  of  weeping  elms 


THE   WIDOWER'S   DAUGHTER.  105 

which  formed  a  continuous  arbour  over  the  main  street  of  the 
village. 

And  Ruth  Eaton  is  arranging  the  little  parlour  at  the  par 
sonage,  and  giving  it  an  air  of  comfort,  and  even  of  elegance. 

Fresh  flowers  are  in  the  vases;  the  sweet  balmy  air  is 
wafted  through  the  tall  \vhite  rose-bush,  now  in  full  blossom. 
A  single  bud  ornaments  the  dark  hair  of  Ruth.  She  has  placed 
one  there  daily,  since  the  first  that  showed  its  delicate  petals 
through  the  green  envelope.  They  are  associated  in  her  mind 
with  the  day,  when  the  white  buds  faded  upon  her  brow,  at 
Stanville  Hall.  Just  a  year  has  passed  since  that  memorable 
day. 

Ruth  Eaton  is  romantic;  Ruth  Eaton  is  sentimental,  if  thisv 
be  a  proof  of  it ;  yet  she  is  not  the  creature  of  impulse ;  she 
possesses  a  clear,  well-balanced  mind,  a  sound  discriminating 
judgment ;  she  performs  all  the  duties  that  now  devolve  upon 
her  with  cheerful  alacrity.  Her  father's  health  under  her 
watchful  care  has  gradually  improved ;  she  has  relieved  him 
from  many  of  his  arduous  labours ;  she  visits  the  sick  and  the 
afflicted ;  she  has  established  a  parish  school,  and  is  the  super 
intending  genius  of  all  the  benevolent  and  religious  efforts  of 
the  parishioners.  They  regard  her  with  respect  and  affection. 
Often  have  they  said,  "  How  strange  it  is,  that  Miss  Ruth, 
with  her  English  education,  has  no  pride ;  she  is  completely 
one  of  us." 

Ruth,  while  thus  performing  her  ministry  of  consolation  and 
usefulness,  was  realizing  some  of  the  visions  of  other  years ; 
her  life  now  had  unity  of  purpose  and  unity  of  action ;  it  was 
the  exponent  of  the  hidden  life  that  she  had  enjoyed  at  Stan 
ville  Hall. 

The  light  gate  of  the  little  court-yard  before  the  parsonage 


106  THE    WIDOWER'S   DAUGHTER. 

swung  upon  its  hinges :  Ruth  hastened  to  meet  her  father  on 
his  return  from  a  walk;  she  opened  the  door;  it  was  Mr. 
Balmley. 

Without  one  moment's  reflection,  she  followed  the  impulse 
of  her  own  affectionate  heart,  and  returned  the  cordial  saluta 
tion  of  her  friend. 

Explanations,  confessions,  and  professions  followed  ;  ending 
with  a  reference — usual  in  such  cases — to  the  father. 


V. 


"  Can  you  give  up  your  own  country  for  my  sake  ?"  said 
the  young  wife ;  "  I  fear  it  is  too  much  for  me  to  require,  Mr. 
Balmley  ;  and  yet,  in  this  land  of  true,  enlightened  freedom,  we 
may  pass  our  days  more  happily  than  elsewhere.  A  thousand 
ways  of  usefulness  are  here  opened  to  you,  and  you  know  you 
have  flung  away  Ambition,  not  for  my  sake  alone." 

"What  definite  plan  have  you  formed  for  my  future  use 
fulness,  Ruth;  I  must  lead  an  active  life,  to  satisfy  the  de 
mands  of  my  own  conscience." 

"  To  be  sure  you  must,"  said  Ruth ;  "  every  man  in  our 
country  must  be  a  working-man ;  we  can  have  no  drones  in  a 
Republic.  You  have  donned  your  armour  for  a  crusade  more 
noble  than  that  which  drew  the  lion-hearted  Richard  from  his 
native  England.  Buy  a  large  tract  of  uncultivated  land ;  por 
tion  it  out  into  small  farms,  for  British  emigrants.  Invite 
tenants  to  come  and  earn  by  their  labour,  the  farms  which  they 
improve.  Pay  them  liberal  wages,  and  whatever  they  save 
from  year  to  year,  let  it  be  appropriated  as  purchase-money 


THE   WIDOWER'S   DAUGHTER.  1Q7 

for  their  own  farms.  In  time,  if  they  are  frugal  and  indus 
trious,  they  will  own  the  land  which  they  occupy. 

"  Build  a  church  and  school-houses.  My  dear  father's 
labours  here  would  be  too  great  without  my  aid.  He  can 
find  a  younger  man  to  take  his  place,  and  he  shall  be  the  pas 
tor  in  the  new  parish  which  will  thus  grow  up  around  us, — a 
community  of  your  fellow-countrymen,  rescued  by  your  bene 
volence,  from  ignorance,  poverty,  and  vice." 

"  My  own  romantic  Ruth,  it  shall  be  as  you  wish,  and  we 
will  call  our  new  settlement,  Eaton." 


THE    ORPHAN. 

BY  HOPE  HESSELTINE. 

WITHIN  her  dear  adopted  home, 

A  lovely  orphan  dwelt, 
Imparting,  by  her  voice  and  look, 

The  cheerfulness  she  felt. 

Her  loving  heart  was  bound  to  those 
Who  prized  her  as  their  own, 

And  by  her  thoughtful  tenderness, 
With  flowers  their  path  was  strown. 

A  youthful  circle  freely  shared 

In  her  affection  true  ; 
Her  books  and  harp,  her  birds  and  plants, 

Were  fondly  valued  too. 

Untainted  yet  by  worldliness, 

She  kept  her  artless  grace ; 
Unconscious  of  her  loveliness, 

Her  wealth,  and  winning  face. 


THE    ORPHAN.  j()9 

While  life  was  bright,  and  future  joys 

In  vivid  pictures  came, 
With  plans  for  usefulness,  a  change 

Was  stealing  o'er  her  frame. 

She  oft  complained  of  weariness, 

Her  brow  was  startling  fair, 
Her  graceful  form  more  slender  grew, 

And  listless  was  her  air. 

Her  friends,  beneath  that  fearful  blight, 

Had  seen  her  parents  die, 
And  yet  they  hoped  she  might  revive 

Beneath  a  milder  sky. 

Then,  to  their  dear  adopted  one, 

The  faithful  pair  were  true  ; 
For  her  they  left  their  pleasant  home, 

And  bade  their  boys  adieu. 

The  shore  had  faded  from  their  sight, 

When  storm-winds  lashed  the  sea, 
And  mid  the  roar  of  waves  were  heard 

The  shrieks  of  agony. 

The  orphan  saw  impending  death, 

And,  in  the  tumult  there, 
She  breathed  unto  the  present  God, 

Repentant,  trustful  prayer. 
10 


110  THE    ORPHAN. 

The  heavy  clouds  had  rolled  away, 
And  silent  was  the  blast ; 

The  noble  ship  pursued  her  way, 
Unharmed  from  keel  to  mast. 

And  like  the  sea,  the  orphan's  breast 
Was  freed  from  tumult  wild  ; 

For  God,  amid  the  raging  storm, 
Had  sealed  her  as  his  child. 


No  more  she  feared  for  life  or  death, 
With  childlike  faith  and  love, 

She  leaned  upon  her  Saviour's  arm, 
And  fixed  her  gaze  above. 


They  reached  at  last  a  sunny  isle, 
Where  gorgeous  blossoms  glowed, 

And  yet  that  fading  northern  flower 
A  purer  beauty  showed, — 

Her  mild  blue  eye,  her  placid  brow, 

Her  glossy,  golden  hair, 
Her  snowy  robes,  and  gentle  voice, 

Her  patient,  saintlike  air. 

The  gay,  the  gifted,  and  the  good, 
To  yield  her  pleasure  vied, 

And  felt  their  hearts  had  better  grown 
For  moments  at  her  side. 


THE    ORPHAN. 

The  choicest  flowers  adorned  her  room, 

And  many-coloured  fruit, 
And  every  little  elegance 

Her  matchless  taste  to  suit. 

So  lovely  was  the  verdant  isle, 

It  seemed  a  home  of  bliss, 
"  4.nd  yet  there  is,"  she  oft  exclaimed, 

"  A  brighter  world  than  this." 

In  murmured  words,  she  sweetly  said, 

"  Dear  Aunt,  of  all  below, 
Abundant  blessings  I  have  had, 

Yet  joyfully  I  go. 

"  Let  not  for  me  your  tears  be  shed, 

Nor  wish  with  me  to  die  ; 
Oh,  live  to  meet  those  darling  boys, 

And  train  them  for  the  sky." 

As  fainter  grew  her  failing  strength, 

And  rayless  was  her  eye, 
Her  spirit  seemed  with  angel  ken 

To  heavenly  things  descry. 

When  spring-time  voices  called  them  home, 

Her  blameless  life  was  past ; 
For  while  they  held  her  in  their  arms, 

She  calmly  breathed  her  last. 


112  THE   ORPHAN. 

The  loved,  though  cold  and  lifeless  clay, 
They  bore  across  the  sea, 

That  in  the  churchyard  she  might  lie 
Beside  her  family. 

And  strangers,  on  a  sculptured  stone, 
The  orphan's  name  may  trace, 

While  lingering  to  praise  the  flowers 
Which  bloom  about  the  place. 

Though  buried  there  the  casket  lies, 

Its  bright,  ethereal  gem, 
With  glory  lit,  is  sparkling  now 

In  Heaven's  diadem. 


A  FEMALE  PURSUIT  IN  ANCIENT  TIMES. 


BY  THE  REV^GEORGE  E.  ELLIS. 


THE  successive  objects  of  intellectual  interest  are  so  nume 
rous  and  engrossing,  that  many  pursuits  which  once  claimed 
an  absorbing  attention  from  human  minds  have  passed  away 
into  oblivion.  When  recalled  to  remembrance  by  the  help  of 
ancient  books,  and  set  forth  amid  the  fresher  themes  of  pre 
sent  employment,  the  aroma  of  the  past  and  the  gray  hue  of 
antiquity  give  them  yet  a  new  interest,  additional  to  that  which 
they  once  possessed. 

Among  the  studies  which  have  ceased  to  be  pursued,— 
which  no  longer  have  a  single  pupil  in  the  world, — one  which 
has  about  it  many  sweet  memories, — is  that  which,  in  a  for 
mer  time,  was  most  devotedly  pursued  among  females  of  rank, 
and  which  is  known  in  ancient  books  as  "  The  Doctrine  of 
Signatures  in  Plants."  This  study  bore  the  same  relation  to 
Botany,  as  Astrology  bears  to  Astronomy,  and  Alchemy  to 
Chemistry.  But  it  should  likewise  be  allowed,  that  the  study 
of  Signatures  in  Plants,  was  always  entirely  free  from  those 
unholy  or  dubious  associations  which  are  connected  insepa 
rably  with  ancient  Astrology  arid  Alchemy.  The  subject 
which  we  are  now  recalling  to  remembrance,  was  never  per- 

10* 


114      A   FEMALE    PURSUIT    IN   ANCIENT   TIMES. 

verted  to  base  uses  ;  it  is  wholly  pure  from  evil ;  and  though 
it  partakes  largely  of  delusiveness  and  mere  fancy,  it  was 
altogether  harmless. 

The  main  principle  involved  in  this  delightful  study,  and 
forming  the  basis  of  all  the  methods  and  conclusions  which 
entered  into  it,  may  be  stated  as  follows.  Every  plant,  flower, 
and  vegetable  product  of  the  earth,  is  expressive  or  symbolical 
of  truth.  It  is  the  emblem  or  signature  of  some  lesson  of  life, 
which  attentive  observation  can  search  out,  and  put  into  appli 
cation.  Either  in  its  shape,  its  constitution,  its  mode  of  growth, 
or  in  its  products,  each  plant,  all  the  earth  over,  is  a  secret 
symbol,  or  counterpart  of  a  moral  or  practical  truth.  More 
than  this  even  was  embraced  under  the  beautiful — though  it 
must  be  acknowledged,  most  fanciful  study  of  the  Signatures  of 
Plants.  It  involved  likewise  the  belief  that  each  plant  indicated 
in  some  way  its  uses  to  man,  the  service  to  which  it  might  be 
put,  and  the  end  which  it  would  fulfil.  One  instance  in  illus 
tration  of  the  principles  and  application  of  this  ancient  science, 
so  called,  may  help  to  make  it  somewhat  more  intelligible  at 
the  present  day. 

Thus,  a  forest  nut,  a  walnut  or  shcllbark,  was  said  to  be  the 
signature  of  the  human  head — the  vegetable  emblem  of  the 
crowning  glory  of  the  human  frame.  While  the  whole  nut 
thus  answered  to  the  whole  head  of  man,  the  various  parts  of 
each  corresponded  also,  and  certain  delicate  affinities  might  be 
traced  between  the  uses  of  each.  The  outer,  shaggy  bark  of  the 
nut  answered  to  the  hair  of  the  head.  The  hard  shell  of  the 
nut  corresponded  to  the  hard  bones  which  form  the  skull. 
The  delicate,  thin  skin  which  lined  the  shell  and  covered  the 
kernel,  answered  to  the  equally  delicate  and  vital  membrane 
which  covers  the  brain  of  man.  The  kernel  of  the  nut  an- 


A   FEMALE  PURSUIT   IN   ANCIENT   TIMES.     115 

svvered  to  the  brain  itself,  and  a  striking  similarity  might  be 
traced  between  the  convolutions,  the  elevations,  the  depres 
sions,  the  undulations,  arid  the  curved  lines  which  divided  the 
brain  in  precisely  the  same  manner  as  they  do  the  kernel,  or 
meat  of  a  walnut.  Then  too,  a  comparison  was  carried  out 
between  the  answering  uses  of  the  whole  and  the  parts  of  the 
two  things,  whose  affinities  of  structure  had  thus  been  traced. 
The  gathering  of  these  nuts  was  a  healthful  process  to  the 
human  frame.  The  autumn  of  the  year  matured  them,  as  the 
autumn  of  age  matures  man's  wisdom.  The  frost  brought 
them  to  the  ground,  just  as  the  frost  of  age  silvers  over  the 
hair  of  man,  and  bows  his  head.  More  closely  too,  might  the 
uses  of  the  vegetable  be  applied  to  serve  that  of  which  it  was 
the  signature.  An  oil  made  of  the  nut-bark  and  shell  was 
found  to  be  excellent  for  the  hair,  and  the  deliberate  chewing 
of  the  kernel,  invigorated  the  mind,  and  promoted  activity  in 
the  brain,  of  which  the  kernel  was  the  signature. 

This  is  one  illustration  among  hundreds  which  might  be 
adduced,  of  this  fascinating  though  imaginative  science.  That 
many  remarkable  analogies,  and  indeed  many  startling  truths 
should  present  themselves  from  the  systematic  pursuit  of  such 
a  theory,  any  one  who  has  thought  much  upon  similar  fanciful 
theories  is  well  aware  is  a  result  most  likely  to  occur.  Some 
really  striking  facts  verified  the  science  in  its  own  day  in  spite 
of  overwhelming  objections. 

In  pursuit  of  these  pleasing  analogies,  wThich  connected,  as 
was  supposed,  the  field  of  nature  with  the  realm  of  truth,  there 
was  scarcely  a  vegetable  product  which  escaped  the  cunning 
processes  of  human  ingenuity.  The  foretelling  of  fortunes,  the 
curious  arts  and  charms  of  ancient  medicine  and  surgery,  the 
blisses  and  pangs  of  sentimental  love,  were  alike  served  and 


116    A   FEMALE   PURSUIT   IN   ANCIENT   TIMES. 

ministered  to,  by  this  doctrine  of  Signatures  in  Plants.  The 
study  was  once  most  indefatigably  engaged  in,  and  the  faint 
traces  and  particulars  of  it,  which  we  find  in  venerable  and 
antiquated  volumes,  are  doubtless  but  very  feeble  indications  of 
the  influence  and  interest  of  the  study,  when  it  was  a  living 
theme.  The  vestiges  of  it  which  still  remain  are  familiar  to 
many  young  ladies  under  the  modern  titles  of  The  Language 
of  Flowers,  The  Sentiment  of  Flowers,  or  the  Emblems  and 
Truths  which  are  partly  revealed,  and  partly  disguised  in  tints, 
petals,  and  foliage. 

Many  beautiful  analogies  and  lessons  are  thus  traced  out,  at 
the  present  day,  but  it  may  well  be  conceived  that  the  ancient 
study  was  a  sterner,  a  more  thoughtful  and  serious  one,  far 
more  so  than  the  lingering  representation  of  it,  which  now 
appears  in  our  pretty  volumes.  The  word  fanciful,  which  we 
have  applied  to  this  ancient  study  of  the  Signatures  of  Plants, 
belongs  to  it  only  as  we  look  back  upon  it  from  our  present 
point  of  view.  It  was  far  from  being  fanciful  to  those  who 
heartily  pursued  it.  It  engaged  a  measure  of  their  firm  belief; 
it  had  an  equal  devotion  of  the  hearts  of  its  votaries,  with  that 
which  Astrology  and  Alchemy  received. 

It  is  to  be  remembered  too,  that  this  engaging  and  innocent 
study  formed  an  occupation,  at  the  time  when  it  flourished,  for 
the  dames  and  daughters  of  rude  and  boisterous  men  in  the 
ages  of  baronial  strife  and  feudal  rule.  Very  often  were 
delicate  fingers  turned  from  their  patient  tasks  on  the  tapestry 
loom,  to  cull  a  few  flowers  from  within  the  enclosure  of  the 
castle  wall.  Very  often  did  the  returning  hawking  party  wit 
ness  a  loitering  of  the  females  amid  the  woods  and  ferns  of 
the  forest,  in  search  of  leaves,  roots,  or  berries.  Then  in  the 
dull  days  of  seclusion,  and  in  the  sameness  of  a  rough  mode  of 


A   FEMALE   PURSUIT    IN    ANCIENT    TIMES.     H7 

life,  these  vegetable  products  were  pored  over  with  a  curious 
interest. 

Human  life  is  largely  occupied  with  trifles  under  all  circum 
stances.  Have  the  weaker  sex  ever  spent  a  portion  of  their 
hearts  upon  trifles  more  innocent  than  these  ?  Fanciful  as  to 
us  appears  this  matter  of  ancient  female  lore,  traces  of  which 
are  found  in  some  obscure  epistles,  sent  by  ladies  of  high  birth 
to  their  female  friends,  by  their  devoted  champion-knights — 
fanciful  and  profitless,  as  it  seems  to  us,  it  nevertheless  an 
swered  many  high  uses.  The  Mirror  of  Life  when  turned 
upon  the  past,  shows  in  its  reflections  but  few  more  lovely  pic 
tures  than  that  of  a  female  group  bending  over  a  basket  of 
flowers  and  foliage,  to  study  out  the  wisdom  of  the  heart  and 
soul  of  the  children  of  God.  How  softening  the  influence  of 
such  a  study ;  how  much  incidental  knowledge  must  it  have 
afforded ;  what  improving  habits  of  keen  observation  must  it 
have  fostered. 


HYMN  OF   THE   BLIND   GIRL 

MY  friends,  by  ministry  of  love, 

Are  only  known  to  me  ; — 
And  countless  blessings,  gracious  Lord, 

Acquaint  my  soul  with  Thee. 

I  know  that  earth  is  beautiful, 

Though  darkened  are  mine  eyes  ; — 

Thus  Faith  reveals  to  Christians  here, 
The  glories  of  the  skies. 

I  thank  Thee,  Father,  for  the  veil 
That  hides  both  noon  and  night, 

Since  Thou  art  shining,  shadowless, 
My  ever-present  light. 


II'  1H1  IE     ffi  0«  fl  ID)  K. 


THE    BRIDE. 


I. 


THE  softened  breath  of  early  June, 
Came  gently  through  an  oriel, 

Where  lingered  in  her  girlhood's  room, 
A  bride,  mid  every  fond  memorial. 


II. 


Her  busy  thoughts,  from  blameless  years, 
But  pleasant  scenes  were  rallying, 

As  winds  that  pass  o'er  fields  of  flowers, 
Are  sweeter  for  their  dallying. 

III. 

And  yet,  those  dear,  remembered  joys, 
Her  spirit,  now,  were  saddening, 

As  shadows  fall  from  rearward  lights, 
Which  erst  our  path  were  gladdening. 


120  THE    BRIDE. 

IV. 

Then,  mingling  with  her  pensiveness, 
Came  deep  and  solemn  ponderings, 

On  Him,  who  had  so  guarded  her 
Through  all  her  girlish  wanderings. 

V. 

New  joys  and  cares  must  soon  be  hers  ;- 
With  childlike  faith  and  lowliness, 

She  knelt  to  ask  for  future  strength 
From  God,  the  source  of  holiness. 

"  Here,  O  Father,  since  my  childhood, 
Daily  I  have  knelt  in  prayer  ; 

Thou  hast  granted  my  petitions, 
Guarding  me  with  ceaseless  care. 

"  Pardon  all  my  heedless  straying, 
Be  my  future  Friend  and  Guide  ; 

Let  me  not,  for  man's  affection, 
Wander  from  my  Saviour's  side. 

"  O  !  when  I  have  left  this  dwelling, 
Cheer,  1  pray,  my  parent's  heart ; 

Give  my  sister  holy  wisdom, 
Well  to  act  the  daughter's  part. 

"  Make  me,  O  !  Almighty  Father, 
Firm  amid  the  ills  of  life ; 

Henry's  will  through  love  obeying, 
A  devoted,  faithful  wife. 


THE  BRIDE. 

"  Pilgrims  to  the  Heavenly  kingdom  ; 

Till  relieved,  we  lay  them  down, 
May  we  bear  each  other's  burdens, 

And  at  last  receive  the  crown." 

VI. 

She  rose,  and  glided  from  the  room ; 

A  heaven-imparted  purity 
Was  blended  with  the  earnest  faith, 

That  nerved  her  for  futurity. 

W. 


11 


THE    LATH  R  OPS. 

A    PLAIN    STORY. 

BY   THE  REV.   H.   HASTINGS   WELD. 

CHAPTER  I. 
Wise  thoughts,  which  no  young  person  will  heed. 

ALL  men  build  castles  in  the  air,  and  all  women  furnish 
similar  airy  fabrics;  for  in  dreamland,  the  distinctions  and 
tastes  of  sex  are  preserved ;  and  if  men  construct  houses,  in 
imagination,  women  follow  their  in-door  vocations  in  the  same 
facile  country.  If  men  speculate  in  impossible  fancies  of  ad 
vancement,  women  go  a-shopping  in  the  like  unsubstantial 
manner  in  their  secret  cogitations.  It  is  a  pleasant  illusion 
while  it  lasts ;  and  that  is  as  much  as  can  be  said  of  any  other 
thing  of  time,  sense,  or  fancy. 

Youth  is  a  famous  season  for  day-dreams ;  and  the  younger 
the  youth,  the  gaudier  the  visions.  The  boy  settles  the  colour 
of  his  servants'  livery  that  is  to  be,  though,  to  the  cost  of  his 
own  limb  and  muscle,  he  knows  that  the  only  carriage  of 
which  his  father  can  boast,  is  a  broken  wheelbarrow;  and  the 
girl  determines  whether  her  diamonds  shall  be  set  in  sprigs,  in 


THELATHROPS.  123 

crescents,  or  in  some  other  form,  though  the  nearest  approach 
to  jewelry  in  her  maternal  home,  be  the  paste  which  is  filling 
her  teeth,  while  dreams  of  Golconda  fill  her  imagination. 
The  poorer  the  point  from  which  the  child  peeps  into  futurity, 
the  better  is  the  prospect.  Perhaps  this  arises  from  a  latent 
suspicion,  that  while  indulging  in  impossible  imaginations,  it 
is  as  well  to  treat  one's  self  to  the  farthest  sketch,  as  to  stop 
short  of  the  utmost  limit  of  a  road  which  is  so  easily  travelled. 

As  years  increase,  the  fancies  and  hopes  of  the  young 
dreamers  are  tinged  and  sobered  by  experience.  Points  are 
reached  which  have  promised  miracles,  but  which  fail  in  the 
test,  from  keeping  the  contract  they  had  made  with  Hope. 
But  in  despite  of  continued  disappointments,  we  still  hope  on ; 
and  it  would  seem  as  if  the  dispersion  of  one  dream  were 
only  a  warrant  for  the  fulfilment  of  the  next ;  as  if  the  future 
were  under  obligation  to  atone  to  us  for  the  failures  of  the 
past. 

Everybody  said  that  young  Mr.  Lathrop  and  his  young 
wife  commenced  life  under  delightful  auspices.  Everybody 
was  right.  A  competence  in  fortune — an  apparent  congeni 
ality  of  disposition — the  approval  of  connexions  on  both  sides 
— the  good  wishes  of  troops  of  friends — buoyant  hearts  and 
cheerful  tempers — all  united  to  presage  happiness,  greater  than 
is  usually  the  lot  of  mortals.  Everything  was  in  such  a  de 
lightful  harmony,  that  if  we  were  only  to  conclude  our  sketch 
where  sketches  usually  end,  instead  of  commencing  it  where 
the  delightful  catastrophe  is  generally  reached,  the  curtain 
would  fall  on  as  sunny  a  scene  as  ever  novelist  essayed  to 
paint. 

Neither  of  the  parties,  it  is  hardly  necessary  to  say,  knew 
each  other,  for  men  and  women  are  commonly  yoked  together 


124  THE   LATHROPS. 

in  happy  ignorance  of  the  characters  of  those  to  whom  they 
are  pledged  for  life — for  better  for  worse,  for  richer  for  poorer. 
Matrimony,  whether  people  will  acknowledge  it  or  not,  is  the 
heaven  of  the  dream  of  youth.  Despite  of  the  disappointment 
of  others  who  have  tried  the  experiment,  young  humanity 
looks  forward  to  it  as  the  acme  of  earthly  bliss.  Once  "  fast 
bound,"  man  and  wife  are  thenceforward  and  thereafter  to  be 
"  fast  found"  in  all  that  makes  life  desirable,  till  death  do  them 
part.  Alas !  that  as  Jacob  was  not  the  first  so  neither  hath  he 
been  the  last  to  find  himself  united  to  Leah,  when  he  had 
counted  on  Rachel.  The  customs  of  the  East  do  not  more 
effectually  conceal  from  each  other  the  characters  of  bride  and 
groom  than  they  are  hidden  by  our  social  conventionalisms. 
Man  goes  masquerading  to  seek  a  wife,  and  woman  receives 
his  visits  by  the  proxy  of  her  reception  face — the  real  woman 
being  better  known  to  Betty  in  the  kitchen,  than  to  any  gentle 
man  of  them  all  who  is  admitted  to  the  parlour.  Both  suitor 
and  sued  have  been  labouring  under  young  delusions.  There 
may  be  "  nothing  half  so  swreet  in  life,  as  love's  young  dream," 
but  sweets  have  a  chemical  affinity  to  acids,  and  matrimonial 
affinity  has  the  same  degenerate  tendency.  The  girl  and  boy 
have  each  an  impossible  ideal — invested  with  all  sorts  of  unat 
tainable  perfect  traits.  When  a  real  man  or  a  real  woman  is 
elected  into  the  niche  of  fancy  occupied  by  this  vision,  the 
dreamer  falls  to  work  to  gild  the  mortal  up  to  the  fairy  stan 
dard  of  imagination.  Such  melancholy  mirthful  delusions  do 
these  efforts  to  make  etherealities  out  of  flesh  and  blood  pre 
sent,  that  the  wildest  machinery  of  the  "  Midsummer  Night's 
Dream"  is  prose  in  comparison;  the  utmost  extravagance  of 
Titania,  with  the  "  fair  long  ears"  of  her  transformed  weaver, 
is  less  than  the  wilful  delusions  of  young  husbands,  and  young 


THE    LATHROPS. 


125 


wives.  These  golden  fancies  soon  scatter  before  the  test  of 
reality.  Therefore,  though,  as  we  have  said,  our  young  couple 
commenced  life  under  delightful  auspices,  it  by  no  means  fol 
lowed  that  these  pleasant  indications  could  not  deceive. 


CHAPTER  II. 
The  Wife's  intimate  Friends. 


"  I  have  such  a  surprise  for  you !"  said  Louisa  to  her  hus 
band,  one  morning.  "  Suzy  is  coming  to  spend  a  month  with 
us." 

"  Suzy  ?"  asked  her  husband,  not  recollecting  who  this 
charming  person  could  be,  whose  anticipated  visit  caused  his 
wife  so  much  pleasure. 

"  Why  yes,  William ;  Susan  Ayling— how  dull  you  are  to 
day — my  intimate  friend,  you  know." 

"  Oh,  yes ;  Miss  Ayling,"  replied  Wiliam ;  "  I  remember." 
He  remembered  her  as  a  very  insipid,  quietly  obtrusive,  ridi 
culously  romantic,  nauseously  affected,  and  to  him  thoroughly 
disagreeable  person,  who  had  always  managed  to  be  in  his 
way,  while  he  was  paying  his  devoirs  to  his  intended,  and 
who,  he  more  than  suspected,  received  at  secondhand  all  the 
kind  things  that  he  said  to  Louisa.  Nothing  annoys  a  man 
more  than  this.  Lovers'  protestations  are  very  insipid  in  the 
repetition.  There  is  a  peculiar  state  of  gentle  weakness  of 
intellect,  necessary  to  prompt  their  utterance.  A  man  in  love, 
is  Hercules  with  the  distaff;  and  he  no  more  desires,  when  the 
access  of  fever  is  off,  to  be  reminded  of  his  infirmity,  than  the 
slayer  of  the  Nemean  lion  would  have  desired  (had  daguerreo- 

11* 


126  THE    LATHROPS. 

types  been  then  in  fashion)  to  have  Apollo  pencil  him  in  sun 
beams  at  his  feminine  relaxation.  Therefore — notice  it  when 
you  will — a  newly-married  man  seldom  loves  his  wife's  very 
intimate  friend  very  dearly,  unless  both  she  and  his  wife  are 
persons  of  remarkable  and  unusual  discretion,  and  either  know 
what  may  safely  be  conversed  about,  or  have  such  careful 
watch  not  only  over  their  lips,  but  over  their  looks,  that  no 
body  suspects  their  interchange  of  confidence.  Miss  Susan 
Ayling  was  no  such  person ;  and  much  as  it  is  our  wish  to 
interest  the  reader  in  Mrs.  Lathrop,  we  must  acknowledge 
that  she  too  was  very  far  from  any  danger  from  excessive 
prudence.  Lathrop  had  begun  to  find  out  his  wife's  weak 
nesses;  and  as  to  her  friend,  it  would  perhaps  be  rather  too 
strong  an  expression  to  say  that  he  perfectly  hated  her, 
though  his  regard  was  little  less  than  hate.  He  despised 
her ;  and  certainly  felt  anything  but  pleased  to  hear  that  she 
was  to  be  domesticated  under  his  roof.  He,  however,  forced 
himself  to  say  something  to  save  appearances,  and  was  careful 
not  to  venture  upon  any  inquiries  as  to  whether  this  vampyre, 
as  he  inwardly  termed  her,  had  obtruded  her  visit,  or  whether 
she  came  duly,  formally,  and  pressingly  invited.  He  feared 
to  find  that  the  latter  might  prove  the  case ;  and  it  made  him 
a  little  jealous  of  his  wife,  that  she  should  desire,  at  this  early 
period  of  their  union,  any  society  beside  his  own.  Newly- 
married  people  are  amusingly  jealous  and  selfish,  both  men 
and  women;  the  best  of  them  no  better  than  jealous — the 
worst  of  them  much  worse  than  selfish. 

In  due  time  came  the  visitor.  William,  who  happened  un 
fortunately  to  be  at  home,  could  have  tossed  her  out  of  the 
window,  as  she  rushed  —  nearly  to  the  extinguishment  of 
Louisa's  eyes  with  her  hat— into  her  arms— we  were  about  to 


THE   LATHROPS.  127 

say,  into  her  mouth.  Then  clinging,  with  more  abandon  than 
grace,  about  her  neck  for  the  regular  five  minutes,  with  which 
boarding-school  misses,  after  three  days'  absence,  salute  each 
other,  the  vampyre  released  her  hold,  and  dismissed  her  victim 
thoroughly  tumbled.  William  hated  untidiness  quite  as  much 
as  he  did  affectation. 

"  And  now,  my  dear  sis,"  proceeded  the  visiter,  without 
noticing  the  presence  of  Lathrop,  who  stood  a  few  paces  off, 
uncertain  whether  it  would  be  proper  for  him  to  remain  or  to 
retreat,  "  do  tell  me  if  the  halcyon  dreams  of  fond,  confiding 
youth  are  realized  in  the  tender  arms  of  him  who  has  assumed 
the  reign  in  your  innocent,  trusting  heart.  Is  he  mother  and 
father  to  you — brother  and  sister — and  oh,  more  than  all,  can 
he  supply  the  place  in  the  union  sweet  of  hearts  which  has 
been  our  life  and  joy  ?" 

"  Bacon  and  spinage !"  muttered  Lathrop,  as  he  bounced 
out  at  the  nearest  door.  What  particular  connexion  those 
edibles  had  with  the  speech  of  Miss  Susan  Ayling,  we  cannot 
undertake  to  say.  Probably  William  spake  of  them  to  keep 
his  tongue  out  of  mischief.  Be  that  as  it  may,  he  hurried  off, 
without  saying  a  word  to  his  wife's  guest,  and  left  the  dear 
friends  in  the  undisturbed  enjoyment  of  their  tete-a-tete.  He 
had  enough  of  it.  Now,  for  the  first  time  since  his  marriage, 
he  began  to  feel  that  his  home  was  losing  its  attractions. 
Endure  it,  with  such  a  person  as  this  visiter  there,  he  felt  that 
he  could  not.  A  brisk  walk  somewhat  relieved  his  petulance, 
however,  and  rejoicing  that  he  had  not  betrayed  his  disgust  in 
any  remarkable  manner,  and  that  his  wife,  at  any  rate,  alone 
suspected  his  feelings,  he  saw  the  propriety  of  returning,  dis 
agreeable  as  the  duty  was,  before  his  absence  should  be  com 
mented  upon. 


128  THE   LATHROPS. 

Perhaps  there  was  rather  more  than  quite  enough  cordiality 
in  the  manner  in  which  he  welcomed  Miss  Susan  to  his  resi 
dence — much  more  than  enough  if  we  are  required  in  our 
greetings  to  pay  any  regard  to  the  truth.  Certainly  there  was 
no  need  of  his  pressing  Susan  to  his  heart,  with  a  theatrical 
grimace  to  his  wife  as  he  did  so.  To  the  wife,  it  was  alto 
gether  inexplicable— to  Susan,  rather  difficult  of  solution.  But 
she  resolved,  that  in  her  future  reading,  she  would  watch  and 
find  out  whether  it  is  not  romantically  orthodox  for  a  man 
who  is  devotedly  attached  to  his  wife  to  extend  his  tender 
attentions  to  her  intimate.  At  any  rate,  as  it  was  among  the 
most  unexpected  surprises  of  her  life  to  be  thus  complimented, 
she  was  not  over-curious  as  to  the  rationale  of  the  thing,  par 
ticularly  as  she  did  not  happen  to  know  what  expression  of 
face  William  wore  when  his  head  was  over  her  shoulder. 

Of  one  thing  Mrs.  Lathrop  began  at  length  to  be  sensible ; 
and  that  was  that  it  was  her  duty  to  be  very  angry  with  her 
husband  for  his  conduct.  And  this  conviction  reduced  her  to 
a  troublesome  dilemma.  She  could  not,  &  la  romance,  be 
angry  with  William  without  a  confidant  into  whose  ears  she 
could  pour  her  griefs ;  and  William  kept  up  a  provoking  series 
of  burlesque  attentions  to  Miss  Susan,  which  she,  good,  simple 
soul,  received  with  the  most  delightful  gratitude.  Could  Louisa 
tell  her  that  her  own  husband  was  a  base  traitor — a  breaker  of 
friendship— a  wringer  of  his  wife's  heart — an  abuser  of  her 
dear  friend — and  all  this  too  without  that  dear  friend's  sus 
pecting  it?  Certainly  it  was  as  ungenerous  a  mode  of  tor 
ment,  and  as  effectual  as  ever  a  malicious  rogue  of  a  young 
husband  hit  upon.  Commenced  without  premeditation,  it  was 
continued  with  provoking  pertinacity.  William  kept  his  wife 
on  nettles  lest  even  the  romantic  stupidity  of  the  butt  of  his 


THELATHROPS.  129 

mischief  should  suddenly  discover  that  she  was  made  game 
of;  and  what  was  begun  without  a  motive,  except  the  prompt 
ings  of  impromptu  mischief,  was  persevered  in  for  the  advan 
tage  it  gave  him.  Louisa,  as  we  have  hinted,  was  in  an 
awkward  dilemma.  As  Susan  never  dreamed  that  the  over 
strained  attentions  of  William  could  be  anything  but  sincere, 
she  soon  began,  in  the  vanity  of  her  heart,  to  look  for  uneasi 
ness  on  the  part  of  Louisa.  We  need  not  say  that  she  per 
ceived  it,  nor  that  the  key  she  invented  for  it  was  anything  but 
the  right  one.  She  regarded  Lathrop  as  a  dear,  delightful 
villain,  and  pitied  his  wife  from  the  bottom  of  her  heart.  She 
deeply  lamented  that  cruel  fate,  who  is  always  a  little  too  late, 
or  a  little  too  soon  in  intermeddling  with  love  matters,  had  not 
taught  him  where  his  affections  were  really  placed,  instead  of 
permitting  him  to  go  and  marry  another,  when  all  his  heart's 
affections  were  in  reality  in  keeping  of  the  unhappy  friend  of 
her  to  whom  his  word  was  pledged. 

Common  sense  would  have  indicated  to  a  common  person 
the  proper  course  to  take  in  such  a  difficulty.  But  Miss 
Susan  was  no  common  person,  and  her  idea  of  such  matters 
was  an  adaptation  of  the  Sorrows  of  Werter  to  the  melan 
choly  situation  of  herself  and  William.  It  was  a  painfully 
interesting  trial  to  be  the  beloved  of  another  woman's  hus 
band,  which  had  exceeded  her  highest  hopes.  Life,  she  was 
now  sure,  was  not  the  mere  bread-and-butter  and  beefsteak 
affair  that  her  unimaginative  acquaintances  had  represented  it. 
There  was  some  romance  in  the  world,  after  all — and  she  was 
the  happy  person  to  make  the  discovery.  Once  sure,  she  re 
ciprocated  William's  endearments  with  most  ridiculous  ear 
nestness  ;  the  only  difference  between  them  being,  that  while 
he  was  most  disposed  to  be  gallant  when  his  wife  was  present, 


130  THE   LATHROPS. 

and  he  could  have  the  opportunity  of  keeping  up  his  malicious 
telegraph,  Susan  was  evidently  better  pleased  with  tete-fr-tetes. 
To  these  our  hero  was  not  at  all  inclined,  avoiding  them  with 
most  resolute  pertinacity.  "  Poor  fellow  !"  said  Susan  to  her 
self;  "  he  is  afraid  to  trust  his  bursting  heart  to  the  ordeal  of 
an  interview."  She  honoured  his  virtuous  self-denial,  inas 
much  as  it  was  an  eloquent  compliment  to  her  irresistible 
fascination ;  but  she  did  wish  that  his  education  had  not  been 
so  much  neglected  in  the  line  of  romantic  attachment. 

We  need  hardly  say,  that  Lathrop  was  full  to  suffocation 
with  amusement,  at  the  turn  affairs  were  taking ;  and  that  his 
wife  was  provoked  beyond  endurance  at  the  disgusting  folly 
of  her  false  friend.  Her  husband  it  was  out  of  her  power  to 
reproach  seriously,  for  he  only  laughed  till  the  tears  came 
when  she  introduced  the  subject ;  and  she  was  compelled  by 
the  contagion  to  laugh  also.  The  end  of  this  visit  was  Susan's 
retreating  from  the  field,  with  the  consolation  that  she  had 
magnanimously  forborne  wholly  to  estrange  husband  and  wife; 
and  no  little  credit  did  she  take  to  herself  therefor. 

If  the  reader  imagines  the  character  overwrought,  he  is  too 
incredulous.  The  mischiefs  done  by  ridiculous  and  mawkish 
romances  upon  young  minds  are  only  not  suspected  in  their 
full  extent  because  so  excellent  an  opportunity  as  was  here 
afforded  does  not  often  present  itself.  False  in  incident,  in 
colouring,  in  morals,  in  feeling,  in  fact,  and  in  influence,  there 
are  no  more  potent  and  continual  agents  of  evil  than  the  popu 
lar  romances  of  the  day.  The  better  written  are  the  worse  in 
tendency,  inasmuch  as  their  pictures  are  so  beautifully  drawn, 
and  their  poison  so  agreeably  insinuated,  that  disgust  does  not 
intervene  to  check  or  abate  the  evil.  But  there  is  hope  of  a 
better  state  of  things,  and  a  revolution  in  the  public  taste. 


THELATHROPS.  13  j 

The  baldly  profane  and  indelicate  trash,  impossible  in  narra 
tive,  and  corrupt  in  conception,  which  rejoices  in  the  name  of 
cheap  literature,  is  working  its  own  cure.  All  but  the  coarsest 
minds  are  startled  at  its  hideousness ;  and  we  may  congratu 
late  our  countrymen  and  women  on  the  fact,  that  the  tide  of 
romance,  having  had  its  flood,  has  cast  up  so  much  "  mire  and 
dirt,"  that  the  reaction  in  the  public  mind  will  lead  to  a  better 
and  a  healthier  state  of  opinion.  Waiving  all  debate  about 
how  far  works  of  pure  imagination  may  be  read  with  safety, 
to  the  health  of  the  intellect  and  the  purity  of  the  soul,  we 
may  find  a  safe  guide  in  this  simple  rule : — Whatever  diverts 
from  the  proper  themes,  which,  as  immortal  beings,  should 
occupy  our  thoughts,  is  dangerous;  whatever  tempts  us  to 
desire  that  the  wrong  could  be  right,  is  a  step  farther  in  a 
perilous  path;  and  whatever  causes  us  to  swerve  from  that 
duty  to  God,  which  he  has  commanded  should  be  exhibited  in 
our  conduct  to  man,  is  ruinous. 


CHAPTER  III. 
His  Intimate  Friends. 

As  we  have  seen  that  William  was  justly  indignant  at  his 
wife's  possessing  an  "  intimate  friend,"  who  was  made  a 
sharer  in  the  secrets  of  the  household ;  upon  abstract  princi 
ples  it  would  be  concluded  that  he  would  himself  be  far  from 
doing  what  he  so  decidedly  condemned  in  Louisa.  But,  un 
fortunately,  it  is  very  far  from  being  the  case  that  men  usually 
avoid  in  themselves,  what  they  are  satisfied  is  improper  in 
others.  We  seem  to  view  our  own  conduct,  and  that  of  our 


132  THELATHROPS. 

neighbours  with  very  different  eyes ;  and  while  we  can  readily 
perceive  the  impropriety  of  a  certain  course  in  a  second  person, 
we  can  discover  no  wrong  in  the  same  conduct,  when  prac 
tised  by  our  own  dear  selves.  William  had  his  intimate 
friends,  as  well  as  his  wife ;  and  candour  compels  us  to  the 
acknowledgment  that  his  friends  were  the  worse  of  the  two 
sets. 

A  man's  best  adviser  is  his  wife — and  a  woman's  her  hus 
band.  If  there  must  be  an  umpire  in  their  differences,  the 
better  is  such  an  one  as  we  shall  find  occasion  to  speak  of 
by  and  by.  To  give  any  friend  power  to  advise  requires  the 
betrayal  of  secrets  which  should  never  be  breathed  to  a  third 
person ;  for  the  great  beauty  and  holiness  of  the  matrimonial 
tie  supposes  an  unreserved  confidence ; — a  perfect  understand 
ing  on  both  sides  of  mutual  weaknesses  and  failings.  The 
exchange  puts  the  two  parties  really  on  an  equality,  and  if,  as 
poor  human  nature  will  be  very  apt  to  do,  each  thinks  the 
other  more  to  blame,  affection  should  strike  the  balance,  and 
make  each  content  with  the  other.  Few  married  couples,  on 
their  first  experience,  come  into  this  proper  view  of  their  duty ; 
and  hence  it  is  that  the  first  year  or  two,  in  novels  and  ro 
mances  supposed  to  be  the  happiest,  are  really  the  most  un 
comfortable  years  of  married  life.  William  was  no  more 
ready  to  relinquish  his  early  friends  than  Louisa  was ;  and  he 
had  the  advantage  of  her,  as  all  husbands  have,  in  the  fact 
that  his  chosen  companions  were  out  of  her  reach,  and  their 
influence  over  him  was,  therefore,  while  it  was  not  so  directly 
perceptible,  the  more  potent.  Poor  Louisa  was  many  times 
puzzled  at  the  whims  and  the  unaccountable  caprices  of  her 
husband.  She  could  not  understand  how  one  mind  could  be 
capable  of  such  sudden  and  capricious  turns  and  changes  in 


THE   LATHROPS.  133 

his  conduct;  and  no  wonder.  His  behaviour  reflected  the 
minds  of  half  a  dozen  people.  He  fluttered,  like  a  dog-vane, 
not  only  with  every  breath  of  gratuitous  advice  which  he  re 
ceived,  but  he  vacillated  and  veered  at  every  joke  which  his 
careless  friends  uttered ;  and  he  gave  a  serious  signification  to 
many  a  light  speech,  which  the  utterers  spake  without  mean 
ing,  and  forgot  as  soon  as  spoken. 

Poor  Louisa,  now  hardly  through  a  year  of  her  married 
life,  was  completely  unhappy.  She  found  that  neither  fond 
ness  nor  distance — neither  praise  nor  blame — neither  cheerful 
ness  nor  sobriety — neither  loquacity  nor  silence  could  satisfy 
her  lord.  Certainly  he  was  never — that  is  to  say,  very  seldom 
— rude  to  her ;  but  what  was  worse  than  rudeness,  he  was  in 
different.  Sharp  words  leave  an  opportunity  for  atonement  in 
the  reaction  ;  and  a  brisk  storm  often  clears  the  horizon.  But 
a  "  heavy  spell  of  dull  weather,"  depressing  and  chilling  in  its 
influence,  is  the  more  hopeless,  that  there  are  no  breaks  in  the 
clouds  that  may  offer  hope  of  a  clearing  away.  Her  husband 
was  becoming  every  day  more  careless  of  his  home.  The 
accomplishments  which  had  once  secured  his  approval,  had 
lost  their  attraction.  The  pleasure  he  once  felt  and  exhibited 
in  ministering  to  her  gratification,  had  ceased.  The  disposi 
tion  he  had  once  shown  to  check  her  apologies  for  little  dis 
appointments  and  disagreeables  in  the  household,  by  good- 
humoured  forbearance,  and  by  making  a  jest  of  what  he 
declared  she  looked  at  with  too  much  sober  sadness — all 
were  gone.  In  their  place,  he  exhibited  a  turn  for  cap 
tious  and  unreasonable  fault-finding,  which  compelled  her  to 
stand  continually  on  the  defensive.  She  dreaded  and  yet  de 
sired  his  return  to  the  house,  fearing  his  censure,  implied  or 
spoken,  and  hoping,  only  to  be  constantly  disappointed,  that 

12 


134  THE   LATHROPS. 

something  would  occur  in  his  conduct,  some  word  fall  from 
his  lips,  or  some  expression  flit  over  his  countenance,  which 
should  give  her,  though  ever  so  faint  a  hope,  yet  a  hope  still, 
that  the  dreams  of  happiness,  with  which  she  had  looked  for 
ward  to  the  home  of  her  heart,  would  be  realized,  at  least  in 
some  degree.  But  it  seemed  as  if  all  the  rose-colour,  with 
which  she  had  invested  her  future,  had  faded  with  the  orange- 
flowers  which  decked  her  hair,  when  she  bound  herself  with 
the  promise, — to  women  how  often  sadly  binding, — that,  leav 
ing  all  others,  she  would  cleave  to  him  alone. 

And  yet  it  would  be  unjust  to  say,  that  William  was  defi 
cient  in  affection.  It  was  not  that  he  did  not  dearly  love  his 
wife, — paradoxical  as  it  may  appear, — that  he  thus  teased  her. 
In  part,  his  conduct  resulted  from  disappointment  that  she  was 
not  the  perfect  being  which  he  took  her  for ;  but  it  was  more 
because  he  was  constantly  receiving  bad  advice  from  impro 
per  counsellors,  that  he  sowed  his  own  garden  with  thorns. 
Men  are  not,  until  they  have  lost  too  much  time  in  unhappy 
experience,  half  aware  how  much  the  sunshine  of  their  own 
household  depends  upon  themselves.  They  do  not  understand 
and  cannot  feel  as  women  do — they  do  not  know  with  what 
crushing  weight  a  word,  a  careless  act,  a  simple  omission,  a 
slight,  where  attention  was  expected,  may  press  upon  a  de 
voted  woman's  heart.  And  all  women  are  devoted.  The 
most  apparently  heartless  wife,  is  often  the  most  susceptible,  if 
the  husband  would  but  know  it.  Her  world  owns  him  as  the 
centre ;  willingly,  if  he  be  worthy,  but,  however  unwillingly 
the  wife  may  admit  it,  still  of  necessity  is  the  husband  the 
regulator  of  the  household.  His  prosperity  is  its  comfort — his 
smile  its  sunshine. 

It  would  be  tedious,  because  unfortunately  too  common- 


THE   LATHROPS.  135 

place,  to  note  all  the  disagreeables  which,  from  the  causes  we 
have  been  describing,  hang  about  the  union  which  commenced 
under  the  "  happiest  auspices."  Too  many  married  readers 
may  recollect  more  or  less  of  the  same  description  of  unhappy 
experience ;  and  too  many  have  behaved  in  precisely  the  same 
foolish  manner,  the  same  in  kind,  though  less  perhaps  in  de 
gree,  as  Louisa  and  William.  The  monotony  of  discomfort 
was,  however,  in  due  time,  broken  by  an  event,  which,  though 
of  as  matter-of-fact  a  nature  as  any  in  our  prosaic  world,  is 
always  treated  as  the  thing  most  unexpected  and  unprece 
dented.  This  was  the  advent  of  a  new  member  in  the  house 
hold — a  perfect  paragon.  Father's  eyes  and  mother's  expres 
sion — the  manly  beauty  of  one  and  the  feminine  grace  of  the 
other — all  wrere  apparent  in  a  countenance  which  might,  to  an 
unprejudiced  observer,  have  appeared  about  as  expressive  as 
an  unbaked  loaf  of  bread,  with  an  accidental  elevation,  repre 
senting  the  incipient  nose.  Unprejudiced  observers,  however, 
are,  by  a  sort  of  instinct,  kept  away  from  the  nursery ;  nor 
are  any  anxious  to  intrude  themselves  unbidden  into  the  pur 
lieus  of  babydom.  So  the  little  heir  of  the  graces  of  both 
parents  was  unanimously  voted  perfect  by  all  admiring  friends 
— and  in  this  state  of  perfection,  we  will  leave  it  to  vegetate 
for  a  year  or  two,  wrhile  we  range  ahead  to  the  finishing  of 
our  story.  It  is  true  that  much  might  be  said  about  the  almost 
quarrel  about  the  name,  and  the  sulky  submission  of  William 
to  his  wife's  wishes,  seconded  by  the  rather  pointed  remon 
strance  of  her  friends,  against  his  unkindness  in  presuming  to 
have  a  choice  in  the  matter  at  all.  Something  might  be 
spoken,  too,  of  the  trials  of  teeth-cutting,  and  the  vocal  gym 
nastics  from  over-feeding  and  hard  jouncing — something  of 
the  horrors  of  whooping-cough,  the  calamities  of  croup,  the 


136  THE    LATHROPS. 

roughness  of  rash,  the  misery  of  measles,  and  all  the  other  ills 
that  children  are  heirs  to.     But  we  will  pass  over  all  this. 


CHAPTER   IV. 
Changes. 

In  a  previous  chapter,  we  have  described  the  end  of  one  of 
Mrs.  Lathrop's  friendships.  Mrs.  Lathrop  we  must  now  call 
her,  for,  at  the  head  of  the  little  crib  at  which  she  sat,  hung 
specimens  of  an  infant  wardrobe,  W7hich  indicated  a  child  so 
far  advanced  in  its  little  age,  that  its  mother  was  now  to  be 
classed  among  matrons.  It  was  a  mild  summer  evening. 
Louisa  had  laid  her  babe  down  to  sleep,  and  lingered  by  its 
side  to  listen  to  its  innocent  prattle,  or  seem  to  listen,  while  in 
truth  her  thoughts  were  far  differently  and  less  pleasantly  oc 
cupied.  A  bright  moon  made  the  apartment  as  light  as  day ; 
and  the  breeze  which  stirred  the  flaxen  curls  on  the  little 
cherub's  temples,  came  in,  laden  with  the  aroma  of  flowers, 
almost  to  faintness.  Moving  the  little  bed,  so  that  the  rays 
should  not  fall  full  in  the  child's  face,  the  mother  paused  to 
look  upon  her  sleeping  babe.  His  ripe  lips  were  parted  with 
the  easy  breathing  of  youth  and  innocence.  His  little  hands 
were  still  in  the  posture  in  which  they  had  been  placed  while 
he  repeated  the  simple  and  touching  lines  which  are  known 
wherever  the  English  language  is  spoken  : — 

"  Now  I  lay  me  down  to  sleep, 
I  pray  the  Lord  my  soul  to  keep — 
Jf  I  should  die  before  I  wake, 
I  pray  the  Lord  my  soul  to  take." — 


THELATHROPS.  137 

And  a  white  rose,  which  the  darling  held  in  his  clasped  fingers, 
had  fallen  on  his  breast,  as  if  his  guardian-angel,  which  always 
beholds  the  face  of  the  Father  in  Heaven,  had  placed  the  em 
blem  of  purity  on  his  little  heart — a  seal  and  token  of  his  ac 
cepted  prayer.  "Of  such  is  the  kingdom  of  Heaven;"  and 
He  who  giveth  his  beloved  sleep,  smiles  on  the  repose  of  those 
whom  He  designated  as  the  fittest  though  imperfect  types, 
amid  the  sinfulness  of  earth,  of  the  purity  of  Paradise. 

Mrs.  Lathrop's  face  was  cold  and  calm  in  the  pale  beams 
of  the  moon ;  and  as  she  rested  her  elbow  on  the  child's  bed, 
and  looked  down  upon  its  slumbers,  her  thoughtful  and  affec 
tionate  expression  and  attitude,  and  the  graceful  negligence  of 
her  slight  figure  and  drapery,  made  her  seem  almost  ethereal. 
It  was  as  if  an  angel  watched  the  sleeper — alas  !  that  under 
an  outward  aspect  so  heavenly,  such  thoughts  as  hers  were 
wrestling  in  her  mind. 

"  If  it  was  not  for  you,  my  darling  !"  she  said  aloud ;  then 
hesitating  to  trust  her  voice  even  to  the  solitude  of  her  cham 
ber,  she  thought  in  silence.  Many  things  pursued  her  in  her 
musings.  Not  the  least  mischievous  of  these  were  the  bad 
counsels  of  officious  friends.  Susan  Ayling  had  been  suc 
ceeded  by  more  than  seven  others — all  worse  than  the  first. 
As  the  husband  found  his  intimates  and  advisers  out  of  doors, 
so  did  the  wife ;  and  the  twain,  who  had  been  pronounced  one 
flesh,  were  now  almost  in  the  bitterness  of  hatred.  The  only 
child,  which  slept  before  her,  had  been  sent  by  Heaven  as  the 
umpire  in  their  disputes.  It  was  a  common  bond  of  affection 
between  them — it  was  the  sole  tie,  indeed,  which  united  them 
any  longer.  She  consulted  her  friends,  only  to  find  new 
methods  of  annoying  him ;  and  he  retaliated,  by  seeking  else 
where  the  pleasure  which  he  could  not  find  at  home. 

12* 


139  THE   LATHROPS. 

"  If  it  was  not  for  you,  my  darling  !" 

What  was  the  alternative  to  which  the  mother  looked?  Let 
those  who,  for  the  purposes  of  paltry  gain,  sow  throughout  our 
land  the  poison  of  the  Satanic  school  of  matrimonial  romance, 
answrer.  Let  the  honourable  men  who  aid  bad  women  in 
teaching  the  modern  abomination,  that  those  whom  God  has 
joined  together,  may  sunder  themselves  at  their  own  option — 
that  marriage  is  a  contract  of  convenience,  to  be  repudiated 
at  will — that  the  holiness  of  the  domestic  tie  is  to  be  trampled 
under  foot  like  the  faded  wreaths  of  a  carousal — that  the  union 
is  one  of  sense  and  not  of  soul — that  God  is  not  the  witness  of 
those  wrho  pledge  themselves,  while  life  endures,  under  all  cir 
cumstances,  and  amid  all  reverses — but  that  when  the  wander 
ing  fancy  seeks  other  and  newer  gratification,  He  who  or 
dained  the  marriage  union  as  a  conservator  of  virtue,  and  a 
school  of  piety  on  earth,  is  to  be  denied : — let,  we  say,  such 
teachers  and  their  abettors  and  disciples,  male  and  female, 
answer  what  Louisa  would  have  determined  to  do,  but  for  the 
silent  pleading  of  the  sleeping  babe,  of  whom  she  could  not 
forget  that  William  was  the  father,  however  neglectful  and  in 
different  he  might  be  to  her.  Suddenly  a  new  direction  was 
given  to  her  thoughts — suddenly  and  awful. 

The  posture  of  repose  changed  to  agony.  The  babe's  hands 
clutched  at  its  throat — the  white  rose  was  caught  in  the  con 
vulsive  grasp — the  little  limbs,  before  so  calm  in  their  rest, 
were  contracted  in  misery — the  face  turned  purple — the  eyes 
protruded  from  their  sockets — and  the  mouth  was  marked 
with  foam. 

"  Help  !  help !  in  Heaven's  name  !"  shrieked  the  distracted 
mother,  as  she  caught  the  babe  in  her  arms,  and  rushed,  like  a 
woman  frantic,  to  the  parlour.  Lights  were  brought — lights 


T  H  E   L  A  T  II  R  O  P  S.  139 

and  assistance.  William — for  ill  news  flies  apace — was  among 
those  who  entered  earliest.  The  instant  application  of  the 
usual  remedies  in  such  cases,  relieved  the  little  sufferer  from 
the  rigidity  of  the  convulsions.  The  blood  resumed  in  part 
its  natural  flow,  and  the  poor  little  hands,  torn  with  an  unper- 
ceived  thorn  upon  the  rose,  bede\ved  the  crushed  flower  with 
crimson.  Strange  how  the  quick  eye  will  catch  such  little  in 
cidents — the  bruised  flower  was  a  type  still  of  the  little  inno 
cent.  It  never  recovered  from  its  injuries,  but  speedily  ceased 
to  be  a  living  blossom. 

So  ceased  also  the  babe.  He  who  giveth  his  beloved  sleep, 
soon  took  the  infant  to  its  longer,  calmer  rest,  for  it  recovered 
only  sufficiently  to  give  mother  and  father  one  smile,  and  then 
passed  from  earth  for  ever.  That  smile  said :  "  Love  one 
another."  That  recovery,  for  an  instant  only  though  it  was, 
was  vouchsafed  in  mercy,  that  the  memory  of  their  darling 
might  be  to  the  parents  lovely  even  in  death — a  peaceful  exit 
from  a  peaceful  life,  ere  yet  the  troubles  and  sin  and  perplexi 
ties  of  the  world  had  wearied  the  spirit  and  corrupted  the 
thoughts. 

Say  not  that  the  child  died  too  young.  Thus  had  it  pleased 
Heaven  that  it  should  fulfil  its  destiny ;  and  in  its  death  God 
did  good  to  the  parents.  Had  the  child  lived,  it  would  have 
become  a  cause  of  discord  and  a  theme  of  dispute,  widening 
the  breach,  and  still  farther  estranging  them  from  each  other. 
Now  the  two  had  a  common  theme  of  conversation.  More 
than  ever  in  their  lives  before  were  they  united.  Louisa 
trembled  as  she  remembered  what  were  her  thoughts  when 
the  hand  of  Providence  in  affliction  called  her  to  herself;  and 
in  the  renewed  kindness  of  her  husband,  could  scarce  forgive 
herself  that  she  had  ever  dreamed  of  favouring  the  dogmas  of 


140  THE   LATHROPS. 

the  modern  social  disorganizes.  She  thanked  Heaven  that 
she  had  been  snatched  from  the  brink  of  a  frightful  precipice 
— thanked  Heaven  —  and  thanks,  thus  directed  in  sincerity, 
never  fail  to  bear  good  fruit.  As  she  wept  over  her  child,  the 
days  of  her  own  infancy  came  back  to  her,  and  the  memory 
of  a  mother's  love  consecrated  the  vision  to  her  thoughts,  now 
that  she  could  indeed  feel  how  intense  is  that  purest  of  all 
earthly  emotions. 

And  as  Louisa  thanked  the  Directing  Care  which  had  saved 
her  in  the  past,  she  learned  to  look  to  the  same  source  for  aid 
in  the  future.  The  light  of  truth,  as  it  broke  upon  her  mind, 
taught  her  all  the  hideousness  of  the  perils  and  temptations 
which  had  so  nearly  overwhelmed  her ;  and  the  dissatisfaction 
and  disappointment  which  had  wearied,  and  the  deep  affliction 
which  had  humbled  her,  weaned  her  thoughts  from  idolatrous 
love  of  earth,  and  placed  her  hopes  in  that  better  land,  where 
death  cannot  again  separate  her  from  her  beloved. 


CHAPTER  V. 
The  Conclusion. 


We  need  not  say  that  the  true  reformation  of  Louisa  was 
evident  in  her  daily  life  and  conduct ;  for  as  the  tree  is  known 
by  its  fruits,  the  true  Christian  is  known  by  the  practical  results 
of  her  faith  and  hope.  Empty  professions  may  be  denied 
by  unchristian  acts ;  but  the  amendment  of  life  which  springs 
from  a  heart  renewed  is  shown  rather  in  acts  than  in  words. 
William  Lathrop  could  not  remain  unobservant  of  the  better 
graces  than  those  which  had  attracted  his  youthful  observa- 


THE   LATHROPS.  141 

tion ;  nor  could  he  fail  in  gratitude  to  the  kind  and  attentive 
partner  who  had  now  become  an  helpmeet  indeed.  We 
have  not  space  to  follow  all  the  phases  by  which  they  passed 
through  a  most  happy  change  of  thought,  feeling,  and  conduct. 
New  associations  gathered  around  them.  The  false  friends 
which  had  deceived  both,  and  the  false  views  which  had  misled 
them,  gave  place  to  better  companions  and  more  correct  prin 
ciples.  They  learned  in  a  word  to  love  each  other  not  only  as 
man  and  wife  but  as  children  of  the  same  Heavenly  parent ; 
and  the  bond  of  Christian  love  and  fellowship  sanctified  and 
ennobled  the  marriage  tie.  Thus  only  can  it  be  happy.  In 
no  place  more  than  in  his  own  house  will  a  man  find  need  of 
the  example  and  exercise  for  the  precepts  of  Him  who  came 
down  from  Heaven  for  our  sakes ;  and  no  character  on  earth 
is  more  lovely  than  that  of  the  Christian  wife  and  mother. 
Other  arguments  may  answer  in  prosperity — but  the  truths  of 
the  Christian  Religion  outshine  to  dimness  all  the  common 
places  of  human  philosophy  when  adversity  overtakes  us. 
Other  consolations  will  serve  for  those  who  are  not  afflicted — 
but  the  sure  promises  of  Revelation  only  can  heal  the  heart 
broken  with  sorrow,  and  teach  us  that  whom  our  Father  loveth 
he  chasteneth. 

Another  and  most  impressive  lesson  still  remained  for  hus 
band  and  wife.  Remembered  of  Heaven  in  their  bereave 
ment,  another  child  came  to  make  good  the  place  of  him 
whom  they  had  lost.  The  pious  affection  of  William  now 
rendering  him  as  assiduous  as  he  had  formerly  been  indiffe 
rent,  led  him  to  insist  that  his  wife  should  not,  in  the  weakness 
which  existed  more  in  his  affectionate  solicitude  than  in  fact, 
be  tasked  with  the  care  of  her  infant.  With  a  mother's 
yearnings  she  would  have  clung  to  the  care  of  her  own 


142  THE    LATHROPS. 

babe— but  with  a  wife's  obedience,  she  gave  way  to  the  plan 
on  which  her  husband  had  set  his  heart. 

An  applicant  soon  answered  their  inquiries.  Louisa  was 
struck  with  the  tones  of  her  voice,  though  her  face  was  hid 
den  with  a  thick  veil.  But  for  this  circumstance  she  would 
not  have  heeded  the  application  of  the  stranger ;  for  there  was 
in  her  appearance  anything  but  a  warrant  of  introduction. 
An  absence  of  neatness  marked  her  whole  attire,  and  Louisa 
shuddered  to  think  that  the  life  of  her  child  should  be  sup 
ported  from  such  a  source.  The  interview  was  rendered  still 
more  painful  by  the  embarrassment  of  the  applicant,  who  at 
length  rose  to  depart,  without  pressing  her  errand — indeed  she 
rather  avoided  it.  Accident  exposed  her  face,  arid  Louisa 
exclaimed, 

"  Susan  Ayling  !" 

The  girl  sank  back  in  her  chair,  weeping  bitterly.  Had 
she  been  aware  whose  advertisement  she  was  answering,  she 
would  have  been  far  from  enduring  the  mortification;  but 
want,  wo,  and  vice  had  made  her  forget  Louisa.  Now,  she 
was  faint  and  sick  at  heart,  that  her  first  effort  at  escape  from 
what  seemed  inevitable  vice  and  misery,  should  be  thus  de 
feated.  She  expected  only  contempt  and  repulse,  for  romance 
has  no  better  lessons  for  its  readers  ;  she  expected  anything 
but  comfort  and  forgiveness,  for  the  schools  of  crime  teach 
that  revenge  is  a  virtue,  and  that  triumph  over  an  enemy  is  a 
rational  joy. 

Poor  Susan  !  Her  story — for  won  by  Louisa's  kindness, 
she  related  it  to  her,  glad  at  last  to  find  a  pitying  ear, — was 
an  old  one.  It  has  been  often  repeated  ;  often  we  fear  it  will 
be  again,  while  false  views  of  life  prevail,  and  disregard  of 
that  better  than  all  human  systems,  which  should  be  our  only 


THE   LATHROPS.  143 

guide.  Her  child  was  dead — its  father  was  a  felon  in  prison. 
A  dashing  villain,  he  had  poured  into  her  ready  ears  the  very 
nonsense  which  she  deemed  the  proper  language  of  the  new- 
light  Utopia  which  her  imagination  painted.  Honour  untram 
melled  was  her  deity,  and  he  professed  it  his.  She  would 
have  preferred  that  honour  should  have  paid  a  decent  respect 
to  usage,  but  he  accused  her  of  mercenary  and  unworthy  pru 
dence,  and  demanded  of  his  chosen,  a  chivalric  contempt  for 
fanatical  and  superstitious  observances.  They  quarrelled  and 
caroused  by  turns,  as  poverty  and  abundance  alternated,  till  at 
length  he  closed  his  "  liberality  of  opinion"  in  the  illiberal  pre 
cincts  of  the  penitentiary,  and  Susan  applied  her  romance  as 
the  answer  to  an  advertisement. 

Mrs.  Lathrop  would  not  permit  her  to  sink  back  into  desti 
tution.  Her  influence  introduced  the  wanderer  to  comfortable 
though  unromantic  support  —  her  advice  and  assistance  is 
moulding  her  character  for  permanent  reformation.  He  who 
bade  the  erring  Israelitish  woman  "  go  in  peace,  and  sin  no 
more,"  will  surely  second  the  efforts  for  good  of  the  friends  of 
Susan  Ayling. 

We  need  hardly  say,  that  this  incident  was  sufficient  to 
enable  Mrs.  Lathrop  to  carry  a  true  mother's  point,  in  the 
kind  contest  which  had  arisen  between  herself  and  her  hus 
band  in  relation  to  the  child.  And  now  we  may  take  leave  of 
the  parties  in  our  plain  narrative,  assuring  the  reader,  that  its 
incidents  are  only  such  as  have  occurred,  though  never  per 
haps  in  precisely  the  same  sequence  that  we  have  here  placed 
them.  If  the  experience  of  others,  as  we  have  here  detailed 
it,  saves  one  person  from  the  disquietudes  wrhich  follow  lack  of 
candour  and  of  confidence,  where  all  should  be  mutual  faith, 
our  time  will  not  have  been  spent  in  vain.  If  we  have  re- 


144  THE   LA  THRO  PS. 

lated  nothing  romantic,  neither  have  we  anything  improbable  ; 
if  we  have  failed  to  satisfy  the  critics,  our  own  conscience  is 
acquitted;  and  if  the  story  of  (lie  Lnlhrops  docs  not  amuse,  it 
is  because  the  plain  prose  of  life  does  not  usually  divert  those 
who  seek  the  stronger  excitement  of  imagination.  The  nearest 
approach  to  happiness  on  earth,  is  found  in  the  habitual  re 
membrance  of  Heaven ;  and  neither  man  nor  woman  may 
expect  to  find  pleasure  in  life,  who  finds  it  not  in  duty  ;  nor 
may  comfort  be  found  in  duty,  unless  pursued  from  a  higher 
motive  than  mere  decency,  expediency,  or  any  other  purely 
worldly  inducement. 


THE    INSPIRATION. 


BY  MRS.  SARAH  J.  HALE. 


"  My  mother's  kiss  made  me  a  painter." 

BENJAMIN  WEST. 


I. 

THE  sun's  slant  ray  was  leaning  down 

To  kiss  the  closing  flower, 
The  birds  on  hurrying  wing  went  by 

To  reach  their  resting  bower, 
As  evening,  like  a  matron  mild 

From  duties  done,  drew  nigh, 
Breathing  a  sweet  and  soothing  calm 

That  blessed  the  earth  and  sky, 
And  rested  like  a  holy  charm 

Of  blended  hope  and  joy, 
Where  in  their  home's  soft  shadow  sate 

A  mother  and  her  boy. 

II. 

His  heart  like  leaping  fawn  went  forth 
Over  the  scene  around, — 

13 


146  THE   INSPIRATION. 

Her  voice  like  low,  sweet  music  calmed 

And  gave  his  fancies  bound  ; 
And  yet  her  tender  sympathy 

In  every  breath  was  felt, 
As  on  his  pencil's  trembling  touch 

With  cheering  smile  she  dwelt ; 
Oh  !  Genius  needs  this  sympathy 

To  bid  the  soul  expand, 
As  lilies  open  to  the  day 

By  summer  breezes  fanned. 

III. 

When  first  the  fount  of  mind  is  stirred, 

The  mother's  loving  look, 
In  rapture  beaming  on  her  child, 

Like  star-shine  on  a  brook, 
Makes  every  gush  of  spirit  wear 

The  diamond's  living  glow, 
And  bids  the  stream  of  childish  hopes 

In  golden  wavelets  flow, — 
Till  thus  the  soul,  an  ocean  filled 

With  love's  translucent  flood, 
Pours  out  those  high,  immortal  thought^, 

The  tide  that  mounts  to  God. 

IV. 

The  world  has  worshipped  Angelo, 
And  bowed  at  Raphael's  name, 

But  never,  in  the  highest  place, 
That  Genius  crowned  could  claim, 


THE    INSPIRATION.  147 

Was  such  delight  as  felt  the  Boy, 

When,  at  his  mother's  feet, 
His  first  weak,  wavering  sketch  he  drew 

And  earned  her  kisses  sweet ; 
Till  waked  and  warmed  by  her  embrace 

Burst  forth  the  spirit  free, 
Prophetic  as  the  sibyl's  voice — 

"  A  Painter,  I  will  be  !" 


THE   MOTHER'S   DREAM. 

BY  MRS.  L.  C.  TTTTHILL. 

"  What  blessing  shall  I  ask  for  thee, 
In  the  sweet  dawn  of  infancy  ? 
That  which  our  Saviour,  at  his  birth, 
Brought  down  from  heaven  to  earth  ?— 

"  What  in  the  labour,  pain,  and  strife, 
Combats  and  cares  of  daily  life  ? 
In  his  cross-bearing  steps  to  tread, 
Who  had  not  where  to  lay  his  head  ?— 

"  What  in  the  bitterness  of  death, 
When  the  last  sigh  cuts  the  last  breath  1 
Like  him  your  spirit  to  commend, 
And  up  to  Paradise  ascend." 

MONTGOMERY. 

THE  low  wail  of  the  boy  was  hushed.  Sleep  had  partially 
closed  the  delicate  lids  over  the  dull  eyes  of  the  sufferer.  His 
emaciated  arms  were  thrown  above  his  head,  upon  the  pillow, 
which  they  rivalled  in  whiteness. 

The  mother  sat  beside  her  noble  boy;  she  tenderly  and 
lightly  laid  her  hand  upon  his  high,  fair  forehead.  To  the 
burning  fever,  which  had  been  raging  for  many  days,  a  gentle 
moisture  had  succeeded.  His  sleep  gradually  became  tran 
quil,  and  "  the  blue- veined  lids"  were,  at  length,  entirely  closed. 


THE   MOTHER'S   DREAM.  J49 

The  dark  expression  of  agony  on  the  countenance  of  the 
mother,  gave  place  to  the  dawning  light  of  hope.  Worn 
with  watching  and  weariness,  her  head  rested  upon  the  pillow 
of  the  invalid,  and  she,  too,  fell  asleep. 

"  You  have  asked  for  power ;  you  have  your  wish,"  said  a 
venerable  man,  with  a  white,  flowing  beard. 

The  mother  looked  earnestly  in  his  wrinkled  face,  and  be 
held  the  stern  features  of  TIME.  She  stood  within  the  walls  of 
the  Senate  Chamber,  leaning  against  a  tall  column. 

A  momentous  question  was  before  those  "  grave  and  reve 
rend  seignors" — a  question  involving  human  rights  and  the 
highest  interests  of  the  nation. 

A  senator  arose.  In  that  strongly-developed,  muscular  man, 
whose  every  movement  was  the  exponent  of  intellectual  energy, 
she  recognised  her  own,  her  only  son.  Joy  and  pride  throbbed 
at  her  heart  as  the  hushed  silence  throughout  that  magnificent 
hall  demonstrated  the  interest  which  had  been  excited  by  the 
rising  of  the  senator. 

When  he  had  for  a  moment  enjoyed  that  silence,  and  ac 
knowledged  the  spontaneous  tribute  of  respect  by  a  slight  bow, 
he  spoke,  and,  in  his  deep,  subduing  voice,  the  mother  recog 
nised  the  tones  which  had  delighted  her  ear  in  his  boyhood. 
As  he  went  on,  he  quoted  from  her  favourite  poets,  the  very 
lines  that  she  had  taught  him.  Her  patriotism,  her  ambition, 
her  love  of  glory,  wrelled  forth  from  his  eloquent  lips.  He  ad 
vocated  the  cause  of  his  country — "  his  country,  right  or 
wrong."  He  spoke  of  deep,  stern  revenge  upon  those  who 
had  "  tarnished  her  bright  escutcheon."  "  Honour,  bravery, 
renown,"  were  his  watchwords,  and  when  he  ended,  his  voice 

13* 


]50  THE    MOTHER'S   DREAM. 

sounded  like  the  trumpet  of  an  avenging  demon,  as  he  uttered, 
"  War — war ; — we  have  no  resource  left  but — war  !" 

The  flashing  eyes  and  flushed  brows  of  the  eager  listeners, 
evinced  that  the  war-spirit  was  fully  aroused. 

The  venerable  man,  with  the  white,  flowing  beard,  said,  in 
a  low  whisper,  which  thrilled  like  electricity  through  the  frame 
of  the  mother  : 

"Behold  the  influence  for  which  you  are  accountable!  You 
sway  the  destiny  of  millions." 

The  proud  spirit  of  the  mother  was  awed,  and  yet  she  re 
joiced  ;  for  power  was  her  idol. 

Transition  strange.  She  stood  upon  a  hill,  commanding  a 
view  of  a  lovely  landscape.  The  ripening  harvest  waved 
over  the  wide  fields ;  the  ruminating  herds  enjoyed  the  grate 
ful  shelter  of  far-spreading  trees,  or  cooled  themselves  in  the 
meadow  stream,  which  lovingly  lingered  among  bending 
flowers.  The  unmolested  squirrel  fearlessly  hopped  from 
stone  to  stone,  along  the  moss-covered  wall,  and  the  birds 
sang  their  sweetest  notes  of  love  and  peace. 

Suddenly  came  upon  the  ear  the  tramp  of  a  marching 
army.  File  after  file  they  passed  on,  raising  clouds  of  dust, 
which  soiled  the  fresh,  verdant  fields,  and  gave  a  lurid  glare 
to  the  summer  sun. 

Their  leader  advanced.  Chivalry's  self  might  have  trained 
his  white  war-steed,  and  decked  this  modern  warrior  with  her 
own  paraphernalia  of  glittering  gold  and  flashing  steel. 

Again  the  heart  of  the  mother  throbbed  with  proud  exulta 
tion — "  My  son  ! — my  brave,  my  noble  son  !" 

While  the  exclamation  still  lingered  upon  her  lips,  the  ad- 


THE   MOTHER'S   DREAM.  151 

vancing  army  had  encountered  the  foe.     She  was  amid  the 
horrors  of  a  battle-field. 

Those  sweet  and  tranquil  meadows  were  trampled  by  the 
furious  legions,  and  the  limpid  rivulet  stained  with  human 
blood. 

The  shrill  shriek  of  the  wounded,  and  the  dull  groan  of  the 
dying,  fell  on  the  ear  of  the  affrighted  mother.  Through  the 
thickest  of  the  fight,  she  traced  from  rank  to  rank  the  waving 
plumes  of  her  beloved  son. 

Men  in  their  last  agony  gnashed  their  teeth  and  gazed  upon 
her  with  the  fierce  look  of  revenge. 
The  old  man  again  whispered  : 
"  Behold  your  own  work  !" 

Then  came  the  leader,  plunging  over  heaps  of  the  dying  and 
dead,  cheering  forward  his  few  remaining  soldiers.  The  white 
horse  was  flecked  with  blood-stains,  and  the  bones  of  the 
wounded  and  the  dead  crushed  and  cracked  beneath  his  feet, 
as  he  trampled  upon  prostrate  men.  Men! — fathers,  sons, 
brothers,  husbands  ! 

Brutal  ferocity  glared  in  the  eyes  of  the  leader — those  sweet 
blue  eyes,  which  had  been  to  his  mother  like  the  violets  of 
spring. 

"  Cowards  !  If  you  retreat,  we  are  conquered.  Onward, 
to  victory !"  shouted  that  voice,  to  which  the  mother's  heart 
again  vibrated  with  proud  emotion. 

At  the  instant,  a  cannon-ball  dashed  him  from  his  horse, 
and  he  fell  at  her  feet. 

With  the  death-agony  on  his  stiffening  features,  he  fixed  his 
glazed  eyes  upon  her,  and,  with  a  tone  whose  unparalleled  bit 
terness  was  fiendish,  he  exclaimed  : 


152  THE   MOTHER'S  DREAM. 

"  Mother,  your  work  here  is  completed,  but  your  power 
shall  still  be  felt  in—" 

"  Mother,"  uttered  a  gentle,  feeble  voice. 

She  awoke  from  her  dream. 

"  Mother,  please  give  me  some  water.  Haw  sweetly  I 
have  slept.  I  dreamed  I  was  in  heaven ;  but  perhaps  God  is 
going  to  spare  me  to  take  care  of  you,  dear  mother,  when 
you  will  be  old  and  feeble." 

The  conscience-stricken  mother  clasped  the  emaciated  hand 
of  her  boy  in  her  own,  and,  as  she  kissed  his  forehead,  deep 
thanksgiving  and  earnest  prayer  went  up  from  her  heart. 
"  Merciful  God  !  Forgive  my  sinful  hopes,  and  enable  me  to 
instil  into  his  mind  the  holy  principles  of  peace  and  good-will 
to  all  mankind." 


THE   DISMAL   YEAR. 


I. 


'Tis  but  one  little  year 
Since  all  were  here  ! — 
My  bright-eyed  four 
Met  me  at  my  cottage  door, 
And  led  me  in  ! — 

II. 

The  youngest,  on  the  breast 
Of  its  fond  mother  prest ; 
With  soft  blue  eye, 
And  jocund  cry, 
And  childish  din. 

III. 

The  other  three — my  pride — 
Ran  laughing  at  her  side, 
And  she, — in  mirthfulness 
Blessed  me  with  welcome  kiss 
And  winning  voice. 


154  THE   DISMAL   YEAR. 

IV. 

Oh  !  let  my  spirit  lie 
In  these  glades  of  memory, 
Nor  call  me  ever  home, 
Weary — and  faint — to  roam 
Mid  vanished  joys. 

V. 

Alas  !  I  cannot  stay ; 
Time  sweeps  my  bark  away, 
And  ever,  ever  on 
Blest  or  alone ; — 
Helpless,  I'm  driven. 

VI. 

Oh !  where  now  is  my  boy, 

Flower  of  my  strength,  my  manhood's  joy  ?• 

Hushed  his  voice  of  mirth, — 

Its  music,  lost  on  earth 

Is  heard  in  Heaven  ! — 

VII. 

Where  is  my  infant  child  ? — 

The  cherub,  fair  and  mild — 

With  fond  caress, 

And  gentleness, 

So  like  her  mother  ? — 


THE   DISMAL   YEAR.  155 

VIII. 

Gone — like  a  moonlit  billow — 
Gone  from  her  cradle  pillow, 
And  she  evermore  reposes 
Wreathed  in  Heaven's  fadeless  roses 
By  her  angel  brother  ! — 

IX. 

Where  is  my  gentle  bride  ? — 
She  smiles  not  at  my  side, 
As  in  those  days  gone  by, 
When  from  her  lip  and  eye 
I  drank  delight ! — 

X. 

A  mother's  love  called  her  on  high 
To  guide  her  cherubs  in  the  sky ; 
And  I  am  left  below, 
To  guard  my  hapless  two 
Thro'  life's  drear  night. 

XI. 

Oh  !  shield  them—gracious  God ; 
Teach  me  to  bear  the  rod, 
Its  chastenings  to  receive, — 
And  childlike  to  believe 
A  Father's  love. 


150  THE   DISMAL   YEAR. 

XII. 

Lead  us  gently — holy  Jesus, 
Till  thy  mercy  shall  release  us, 
Then  our  years  of  parting  o'er, 
Waft  us  to  those  gone  before — 
A  family  above ! 

H. 


EARLY    INFLUENCE. 

BY  ANNE  W.  MAYLIN. 

"  Ye  whose  grateful  memory  retains 
Dear  recollection  of  her  tender  pains, 
To  whom  your  oft-conn'd  lesson,  daily  said, 
With  kiss  and  cheering  praises  was  repaid ; 
To  gain  whose  smile,  to  shun  whose  mild  rebuke, 
Your  irksome  task  was  learnt  in  silent  nook:— 
And  ye,  who  best  the  faithful  virtues  know 
Of  a  linked  partner,  tried  in  weal  and  wo, 
Whose  very  look  called  virtuous  vigour  forth, 
Compelling  you  to  match  her  worth — 
Give  ear." 

JOANNA  B.ULLIE. 

INFLUENCE  is  an  all-potent  engine  for  good  or  for  evil.  No 
character,  great  or  humble,  is  formed  without  its  instrumenta 
lity.  No  life  passes,  whose  daily  course  bears  not  upon  itself 
traces  of  influence,  as  its  recipient;  nor  any,  whose  daily 
course  casts  not  some  lights  and  shadows  around  it  on  others, 
as  its  creator.  From  the  first  dawn  and  springtime  of  being, 
we  are  each  and  every  one  its  subjects :  and  let  us  live  as  long 
as  we  may,  \ve  shall  never  become  absolutely  independent  of 
its  authority. 

14 


ir>8  EARLY    INFLUENCE. 

If  character  is  modified  and  to  some  extent  created,  by  in 
fluence,  what  must  be  its  importance  as  connected  with  the 
opening  season  of  existence — its  first  bearings  upon  the  forma 
tion  of  the  plastic  mind — its  earliest  tendencies  in  bending  that 
twig,  according  to  the  direction  of  which  "  the  tree  inclines?" 
Who  can  number  its  modifications  ? — who  mark  even  one-half 
of  its  insensible  results  in  the  development  of  taste,  thought, 
feeling,  principle,  and  the  whole  intellectual  and  moral  being  ? 
The  healthful  dew  of  night  is  not  more  silent — the  poisonous 
miasma  not  more  unheeded — than  many  of  the  early  in 
fluences  that  most  powerfully  affect  the  mind's  subsequent 
history  and  character.  Yet  the  issues  of  these  are  not  more 
sure  in  the  natural  world  than  are  those  of  the  latter  in  the 
moral.  We  are  formed  by  them,  and  know  it  not.  We  take 
the  various  impressions  for  weal  or  ill  they  imprint  upon  us, 
yet  we  feel  not  that  these  impressions  have  been  made.  Thus 
the  whole  mental  superstructure  is  created,  partly  irrespective 
of  ourselves :  and  we  may  become  an  almost  "  patriarch 
pupil"  in  the  school  of  influences,  before  we  are  led  to  analyze 
their  origin  and  progress. 

Both  surrounding  characters  and  circumstances  contribute 
their  share  to  the  sum  total  of  these.  Those  of  the  home 
circle,  and  especially  of  the  maternal  relation,  are  proverbially 
powerful  beyond  all  others.  From  Rebecca,  whose  evil 
counsel  inculcated  on  her  favourite  Jacob  the  principle  and 
practice  of  deceit,  to  the  mother  of  Byron,  creating,  by  her 
unnatural  coldness  towards  her  child,  the  almost  malignant 
misanthrope  of  his  age  ; — from  Hannah,  lending  her  son  "  for 
life  unto  the  Lord,"  to  the  mother  and  grandmother,  whose 
"  unfeigned  faith  dwelt"  in  Timothy  also, — the  world  of  great 
as  well  as  minor  minds  has  been  swayed  and  shaped  by  ma- 


EARLY   INFLUENCE.  159 

ternal  guidance.  This  influence  is  so  universally  acknow 
ledged,  that  it  would  be  but  trite  to  dwell  on  it.  We  have 
only  to  look  abroad  into  history,  and  its  lessons  meet  us.  We 
have  but  to  turn  an  inward  eye  upon  our  own  characters,  and 
unlike  are  we  to  our  kind,  indeed,  if  its  workings  are  not 
manifested  there. 

We  all  know  who  said  that  his  mother's  kiss  made  him  a 
painter ;  we  cannot  forget  whose  varied  and  wonderful  lingua- 
dental  attainments  were  traced  by  himself  to  the  encourage 
ment  his  infant  impulses  received,  as  a  mother's  voice  gently 
answered  his  unceasing  appeals  for  knowledge,  with — "  Read, 
and  you  will  know."  We  cannot  forget  that  he  whose  "  Rise 
and  Progress"  has  gone  through  the  length  and  breadth  of 
many  lands,  arousing  the  careless  and  instructing  the  Chris 
tian,  referred  his  own  love  for  the  Sacred  Scriptures  to  the 
hours  when  the  guardian  of  his  infancy  read  him  the  stories 
of  Holy  Writ  from  the  Dutch  tiles  in  the  old  fire-place  ;  nor 
that  his  cotemporary,  whose  spiritual  songs  have,  like  those  of 
David,  gone  up  to  God  on  the  lips  of  thousands,  when  bring 
ing,  at  the  age  of  three  years,  a  pin  from  the  house  of  a  neigh 
bour,  had  the  lesson  of  mine  and  thine  irieffaceably  engraven 
on  his  little  mind,  by  being  sent  back  to  restore  even  that  trifle 
to  its  owner. 

The  world  of  early  influences  is  an  extensive  one.  In 
fluences  whisper  to  the  youthful  bosom  from  nature — from 
history — from  poetry — from  science — from  art.  Influences 
come  to  us  in  life's  first  years  from  all  that  surrounds  us;  from 
the  first  books  we  read  with  avidity — the  first  names  in  learn 
ing  that  arrest  our  attention — the  first  strains  of  music  that 
touch  our  soul — the  first  voice  to  which  we  listen  in  public, 
speaking  with  the  stirring  tones  of  eloquence — the  first  epi- 


1GO  EARLYINFLUENCE. 

thets  that  we  hear  appended  to  certain  mental  qualities,  whe 
ther  noble  or  ignoble — the  first  associations  with  which  the 
things  of  time  and  sense  are  spoken  of  by  those  around  us,  as 
compared  with  things  immaterial  and  eternal.  There  are  in 
fluences  caught  from  the  garden  and  the  meadow — from  the 
streamlet  and  the  sky — from  the  floating  cloud  and  the  fading 
sunset — from  the  wind  in  the  woods  and  the  chirp  of  the 
grasshopper; — influences,  which,  breathing  themselves  through 
the  mind  of  the  young  noviciate  in  life,  modify  and  colour  the 
nature  of  all  its  subsequent  associations  with  the  objects  them 
selves. 

Who,  that  has  a  heart  capable  of  being  moved  by  the  intel 
lectual  sublime,  cannot  recall  the  high  throb  of  emotion  which 
swelled  it  as  its  perceptions  of  mental  greatness  were  first 
awakened  by  presenting  before  it  some  glorious  personification 
of  that  greatness  ?  Who  cannot  point  to  some  one  volume, 
the  frequent  perusal  of  which  modelled  his  taste,  and  formed  a 
kind  of  touchstone  by  which  he  learned  to  judge  of  others  ?  or 
to  some  name  in  historic  or  biographic  annals,  which  his 
youthful  enthusiasm  elevated  above  all  others,  as  the  beau 
ideal  of  his  own  aspirations  ?  Never,  probably,  would  there 
have  been  an  Alexander,  but  for  an  Achilles :  nor,  probably, 
might  an  Elizabeth  Fry  have  blessed  and  benefited  the  world, 
had  there  not  lived  a  Howard. 

Early  influences  are  abiding  ones.  Their  authority  over 
even  the  maturely-developed  mind  is  mighty;  nor  can  the 
combined  forces  of  reason,  and  conviction,  and  judgment,  uni 
formly  avail  to  disenthral  it  from  their  dominion.  Even  the 
giant  intellect  of  the  illustrious  Dr.  Johnson  was  inadequate  to 
emancipate  itself  from  the  weak  superstitions  engendered  in 
his  infant  breast  by  hobgoblin  nursery  tales,  which  were  the 


EARLY   INFLUENCE.  KU 

annoyance  of  his  imagination  through  his  whole  life.  We 
take  the  "  hue  and  colouring"  of  our  mental  habits,  and  even 
of  our  prejudices,  from  those  around  us ;  and  unfortunately, 
in  being  acted  upon  by  surrounding  influences,  the  affinities  of 
our  minds  for  these  are  not  always  purely  elective.  Many  of 
them  are,  indeed,  involuntary ;  and  so  much  easier  is  it  to  sur 
render  ourselves  to  lower,  than  to  assimilate  towards  higher 
ones,  that  the  unpropitious  ofttimes  gain  the  ascendency  over 
the  healthful.  How  vitally  essential  is  it  then,  that  the  cha 
racter  of  the  associations  which  cluster  around  our  youthful 
years,  be,  morally  and  intellectually,  such  as  the  heart  may 
acknowledge  with  gratitude  and  delight,  throughout  the  after- 
pages  of  its  history !  The  key-note  in  music,  giving  charac 
ter  to  a  whole  piece,  is  not  more  important  than  that  key-note 
of  the  future  character,  which  is  generally  given  within  the 
walls  of  home. 

Unhappily,  the  early  influences  under  which  the  majority  of 
individuals  pass  their  first  years,  far  from  encourage  a  just  and 
elevated  appreciation  of  either  intellectual  or  moral  excellence. 
The  voice  of  ihefew,  speaking  to  us  from  good  books  and  good 
men,  declares  perhaps  the  words  of  truth  and  soberness :  but 
that  of  the  many  sets  forth  the  praises  of  wealth,  power, 
folly,  and  fashion ;  and  the  eternal  realities,  and  sublime  re 
sources  of  our  higher  being  are  scarcely  named,  or  slightingly, 
as  castles  in  the  air.  Those  enjoy  a  peculiar  privilege  whose 
early  estimates  of  good  and  evil,  of  right  and  wrong,  of  light 
and  darkness,  have  not  been  formed  upon  the  vox  populi ; 
whose  principles  and  tastes  have  been  moulded  upon  such 
models,  and  such  standards,  as  ever  lead  them  to  place  the 
intellectual  above  the  animal, — the  social  above  the  selfish, — 

14* 


162  EARLY   INFLUENCE. 

the  valuable  above  the  splendid ; — and  finally,  the  things  seen 
and  temporal  below  the  things  unseen  and  eternal. 

There  could  hardly  be  presented  a  more  beautiful  illustra 
tion  of  the  nature  and  workings  of  a  high  intellectual  and 
moral  influence,  upon  the  formation  of  character,  than  in 
Fenelon's  admirable  Telemachus.  Young,  ardent,  enthusi 
astic,  inclined  to  yield  himself  to  the  impetus  of  the  moment 
without  duly  considering  whither  it  would  lead  him,  evil  oft- 
times  appears  to  him  as  good,  and  good  as  evil;  unaided 
by  strength  superior  to  his  own,  his  steps  would  surely  have 
failed  a  thousand  and  a  thousand  times  amid  the  hidden  pitfalls 
and  quicksands  which  environed  them. 

But  behold  how  gently,  yet  prevailingly,  the  holy  guidance 
of  wisdom  leads  him  along;  mildly  controlling  his  choice 
without  annihilating  it, — guiding,  not  binding  his  will !  No  Ri- 
naldo,  hewing  down  at  one  stroke  the  tree  with  whose  fall  all 
the  illusions  of  the  enchanted  garden  vanished  as  a  vision,  this 
heavenly  guardianship,  with  gradual  growth  of  power,  quietly 
walks  by  his  side,  through  the  voluptuous  bowers  of  Calypso, 
counteracts  her  siren  words  of  flattery,  shields  him  from  the 
fascinations  of  her  preference,  and  after  bringing  him  victo 
riously  through  many  minor  conflicts,  enables  him  at  last  even 
to  withstand  the  rising  strength  of  a  pure  and  virtuous  attach 
ment,  rather  than  that  anything  should  clash  with  the  one 
settled  purpose  and  duty  of  his  soul,  his  return  to  Ithaca.  His 
struggles  between  inclination  and  honour,  between  weakness 
and  resolution, — the  expedients  by  which  he  endeavours  to 
hide  from  his  own  view  the  secret  disguises  of  his  heart,  are 
delicately  and  truthfully  delineated,  and  commend  themselves 
to  the  testimony,  the  experience,  of  all  who  have  entered  in 
good  earnest  on  the  conflict  and  combat  of  life. 


EARLY  INFLUENCE. 

Let  us  review  those  influences  that  have  in  some  measure 
formed  our  own  minds;  their  nature,  character,  and  effect 
upon  ourselves:  thence  shall  we  be  better  able  to  judge  of  what 
we  may  do  for  those  who  are  in  their  turn  just  entering  upon 
their  career,  with  bosoms  ductile  to  every  image  that  exam 
ple,  conversation,  or  observation,  may  indelibly  imprint  there. 
Who  can  tell  what  each  of  us  is  daily  doing  for  these  ?  We 
need  not  be  parents,  or  even  professionally  teachers,  to  ac 
complish  something  in  this  matter.  To  each  of  us  is  given  to 
stir  some  little  wave  of  influence  in  the  mighty  sea  of  mind ;  to 
move  from  its  centre  some  small,  but  "  spreading  circle,"  to 
leave  behind  us  some  "  footstep,  on  the  sands  of  Time." 

Let  us  see  to  it  that  the  tendency  of  the  influence  we  exert, 
tell  for  good  upon  those  who  receive  it.  Let  not  our  discourse, 
our  example,  our  deportment,  the  spirit  and  tenor  of  our  lives, 
be  such  as  to  lead  those  around  us  to  feel,  or  even  to  appear  to 
feel,  that,  so  far  as  we  are  concerned, — "  to  eat,  drink,  and  be 
clothed"  according  to  the  standard  or  fashion  of  the  surrounding 
world,  is,  in  our  view,  the  chief  good  of  human  life.  Let  us  try 
to  draw  from  a  purer,  brighter  atmosphere,  from  "  an  ampler 
ether  and  diviner  air,"  the  daily  breath  of  our  own  spirits,  that 
we  may  infuse  some  portion  of  its  enlivening,  invigorating  im 
pulses  into  those  around  us.  Let  us  feel  that  each  of  us  can  and 
ought  to  do  something  to  elevate  the  principle  and  practice  of 
the  age  we  live  in,  especially  the  rising  age.  That  is  an  utterly 
false  humility  which  declines  all  such  efforts  on  the  fashionable 
plea  of  those  efforts  being  too  insignificant  to  oppose  the  tor 
rent,  or  too  unimportant  to  be  available. 

Drops  make  up  the  shower ;  grains  the  ant-hills ;  single  lines 
of  light  the  whole  concentrated  effluence  of  the  glorious  sun. 
We  may  feel  that  we  can  be  but  that  drop— that  grain,  and 


164  EARLY   INFLUENCE. 

that  if  even  a  single  line  of  light  be  emitted  from  our  moral  path 
way,  it  must  be  faint  indeed  as  that  of  the  gray  and  trembling 
dawn.  But  if  we  may  venture  to  hope  that  only  one  mind 
which  is  hereafter  to  act  on  life's  great  stage  when  we  are 
withdrawn  from  it,  shall  be  able  to  look  back  and  refer  to  any 
instrumentality  of  ours,  whether  direct  or  indirect,  upon  its 
early  years,  the  formation  of  one  good  principle,  the  power  of 
increasing  the  sum  of  others'  welfare,  or  of  its  own  true  happi 
ness;  if  we  can  lead  even  a  little  child  by  the  glorious  fountain 
of  intellectual  delights,  or  the  more  glorious  fountain  of  living 
waters,  and  the  footsteps  of  Him  whose  favour  is  life,  and 
whose  loving  kindness  better  than  life :  more  blessed  shall  we 
be  in  the  great  day  of  His  appearing,  than  if  we  had  "  subdued 
kingdoms,"  or  "  taken  a  strong  city." 


[}[!  IK     W  1!  1W  CO)  W. 


WIDOWHOOD. 

BY  MISS  CATHARINE  M.  SEDGWICK. 

"  For  thy  dear  sake,  I  will  walk  patiently 
Through  these  long  hours,  nor  call  their  minutes  pain." 

FRANCES  ANNE  BUTLER. 

MANY,  many  years  have  passed  since  I  was  called,  with 
other  loving  friends,  to  witness  the  marriage  of  Emily  Remson 
Jo  Murray  Winthrop.  Never  was  there  a  better-sorted  pair, 
nor  a  marriage  under  happier  auspices.  They  had  known 
each  other  from  childhood  ;  their  parents,  their  grandparents, 
were  friends.  There  was  no  element  of  discord  in  their  na 
tures — they  were  born  to  an  inheritance  of  healthy  minds 
and  hearts.  They  were  educated  with  sound  views  of  life 
and  duty.  They  had  the  same  circle  of  interests,  tastes,  and 
inclinations.  They  might  be  strictly  called  homogeneous — 
everything  in  them  blending  in  harmony.  There  was  no  dif 
ference  between  them  (in  these  days  of  bold  assertion,  to  the 
contrary,  we  are  old-fashioned  enough  to  believe  there  is  a 
difference),  but  that  which  distinguishes  the  man  from  the 
woman.  Milton  has  said  it  better  than  any  one  can  say  it 
after  him — 


166  WIDOWHOOD. 

"  For  contemplation  he,  and  valour  form'd, 
For  softness  she,  and  sweet,  attractive  grace." 

There  could  not  be,  there  never  were  questions  of  "  absolute 
rule"  and  "  subjection"  between  them,  for  their  wills  were 
blended  in  one. 

The  families  of  both  parties  were  present,  and  showers  of 
prayers,  and  wishes,  and  sympathies  consecrated  the  occasion. 
It  was  a  general  family  festival — a  "  beautiful  hour;  when  in 
every  cloud  stood  a  smiling  angel,  who,  instead  of  rain-drops, 
showered  down  flowers." 

For  fifteen  years  life  fairly  kept  its  promise  to  them.  There 
was  but  one  flaw  in  their  happiness,  and  that  I  have  often 
heard  Emily  cheerfully  say,  "  I  ought  not  to  wish  to  escape 
from,  and  I  do  not ;  there  must  be  something — some  earthy 
sediment  in  the  clearest  cup ;  and  what  could  I  have  easier  to 
bear  than  the  ill-health  that  seems  to  double  my  husband's  ten 
derness,  and  stimulate  his  invention  to  open  new  sources  of 
enjoyment  to  me." 

We  often  wish  that  our  countrywomen  had  more  health, 
more  vigour,  and  more  of  the  independence  and  self-reliance 
that  spring  from  physical  force.  And  the  time  is  coming, 
when  the  want  of  these  will  cease  to  be  their  reproach,  but,  in 
the  meanwhile,  we  thank  God,  that,  as  in  all  evil,  there  is 
some  providential  mitigation — a  reflection  of  his  love  even  in 
the  tear-drop ;  so  the  debility  of  our  women  is,  in  some  slight 
degree,  compensated  by  the  gentleness,  tenderness,  and  sym 
pathy  that  accompanies  it.  If  our  wives  lean,  they  find  the 
strongest  support — if  they  are  weak  and  dependent,  their  hus 
bands  are,  for  the  most  part,  considerate,  generous,  and  de 
voted. 

So,  assuredly,  was  my  friend  Murray  Winthrop.     Emily 


WIDOWHOOD. 


167 


was  a  wife  after  the  old  Israelitish  pattern,  leaning  in  her 
very  nature  ;  "  her  desire  was  unto  her  husband" — desire,  with 
out  the  fear  of  patriarchal  times.  She  was  as  free  as  if  she 
were  unyoked,  for  she  had  no  wish  independent  of  her  hus 
band's,  and  certainly  no  enjoyment  without  a  partition  with 
him.  It  was  not  that  she  lost  her  distinctive  character,  as 
certain  colours  are  deadened  by  the  proximity  of  stronger 
ones,  but  like  a  lesser  stream,  she  blended  with  a  fuller  one — 
not  losing  her  own  power,  but  giving  more  force  to  his.  She 
was  not  one  of  those  silly,  "  just  as  Mr.  So-and-so  pleases" 
wives,  or  "  I  have  not  asked  husband,  but  just  as  he  thinks,  I 
shall  think."  Emily  thought  and  acted  freely ;  the  main 
spring  was  in  her  heart,  and  that  brought  out  the  perfect  ac 
cord.  I  have  never  seen  a  happier  home  than  theirs — sancti 
fied  by  the  rites  of  religion,  and  cheerful  with  every  social 
blessing  and  virtue. 

Fifteen  happy  years  passed  on.  They  had  six  lovely  chil 
dren.  They  had  not  riches,  but  uniform  prosperity.  Win- 
throp  had  an  honourable  profession,  and  a  certain  income,  and 
he  delighted  to  surround  his  wife  with,  every  indulgence  that 
could  mitigate  the  evil  of  her  ill-health.  He  could  not  afford 
a  carriage,  but  a  carryall  with  one  horse,  gave  her  the  re 
freshment  of  a  daily  drive  with  her  husband,  more  enjoying  to 
her  than  if  she  had  had  a  liveried  coachman  and  half  a  dozen 
footmen  in  livery.  Neither  could  they  afford  a  countrv-seat, 
but  they  went  for  some  happy  weeks  every  summer  to  the 
sea-shore,  or  to  the  hill-country.  They  did  not  indulge  in 
magnificent  dinner-parties,  but  there  was  always  a  seat  and  a 
welcome  for  a  friend  at  their  table — and  a  good  dinner,  too, 
for  Winthrop  in  his  daily  marketing,  procured  some  dainty,  to 
secure  for  Emily  the  blessing  of  a  relished  meal. 


WIDOWHOOD. 


She  was  sometimes  unable  to  walk  up  and  down  stairs,  but 
her  husband  carried  her  in  his  arms,  and  then,  as  she  said,  she 
was  more  to  be  envied  than  pitied. 

I  linger  in  their  sunshine.  The  fifteen  years  were  passed  ! 
Winthrop  went  to  New  Orleans  to  help  a  beloved  and  only 
brother  through  an  entanglement  with  a  fraudulent  merchant. 
In  order  to  extricate  him,  Winthrop  pledged  a  large  portion  of 
his  own  property.  If  their  lives  were  preserved,  there  was  no 
risk  of  final  loss  ;  and  full  of  life  and  health,  they  scarcely 
thought  of  the  contingency. 

They  sailed  for  New  York.  A  tempest  came  on—  The  ship 
was  dismasted  and  unmanageable.  A  part  of  the  crew  and 
passengers  took  to  the  boats  ;  Winthrop  and  his  brother,  by 
the  captain's  advice,  remained  on  the  wreck.  Winthrop,  at 
the  moment  they  were  lowering  the  boat,  wrote  in  pencil  on  a 
card  the  following  line  to  his  wife,  and  gave  it  to  one  of  the 
passengers  who  was  abandoning  the  ship  :—  "  In  all  events, 
trust  in  God,  as  I  now  do,  my  Emily.  His  will  be  done." 

The  wreck  went  down  in  sight  of  the  boats  !  They  came 
to  land.  The  news  was  sent  to  Emily  by  the  passenger  who 
transmitted  to  her  her  husband's  last  token,  and  she  was 
plunged  at  once,  without  the  poor  preparation  of  an^  appre 
hension,  from  cheerful  anticipations,  into  the  desolation  of 
widowhood.  She  would  gladly  have  covered  her  face  and 
died.  The  light  of  her  life  was  gone.  Not  even  her  children 
reflected  one  ray  of  light  to  her.  The  impulse  to  action  was 
lost—the  springs  of  hope  were  dried  up.  No  more  smoothing 
of  rough  ways  for  her—  no  more  anticipation  of  her  wants—  no 
more  defence  from  hardship—  no  more  providing—  no  more 
watching  ;  no  more  companionship  !  She  was  alone  !  alone  ! 
How  did  that  word  strike,  and  strike  upon  her  heart  the  knell 


WIDOWHOOD.  I0g 

of  her  departed  life.  The  world  was  no  longer  the  world  she 
had  lived  in.  Thick  darkness  had  settled  upon  it.  It  was  as 
if  the  sun  had  vanished,  and  the  countless  starry  host  had 
passed  away.  Day  and  night  returned,  but  not  to  her  came 
their  sweet  uses ;  meal-times  brought  no  refreshment ;  she  lay 
down  to  wakeful  nights  and  troubled  dreams,  and  awoke  to 
feel  again,  and  again  the  first  blow  in  all  its  activeness  and 
freshness.  Her  children  were  as  nothing  to  her.  One  blank 
despair  had  closed  the  access  to  all  other  passions.  There 
was  nothing  left  but  a  capacity  for  suffering.  Where  was  her 
religion  ?— alas !  alas !  she  had  loved  her  husband  supremely. 
She  had  forsaken  her  God— He  had  not  forsaken  her. 

I  have  said  that  Emily  derived  no  comfort  from  her  chil 
dren.  In  this  I  found  some  excuse  for  her,  for  it  indicated  to 
me  that  her  mind  had  lost  its  balance,  and  that  she  had  not 
the  power  to  give  herself  to  the  holiest  ministrations  of  nature. 
But  there  was  one  influence  that  seemed  to  reach  her.  Annie, 
her  fourth  child,  a  girl  nine  years  old,  had  an  uncommonly 
sweet  voice,  and  when  her  mother  was  exhausted  with  mourn 
ing  and  watching,  and  her  pulses  were  throbbing  and  every 
nerve  was  in  tormenting  action,  she  would  send  for  Annie  to 
sit  by  'her  bedside  and  sing  to  her.  There  was  a  magnetic 
influence  in  the  child's  tender  voice.  Her  mother  would  be 
come  calm,  and  sometimes  fall  asleep.  The  poor  little  girl 
would  sing  on,  infected  with  her  mother's  sadness,  with  tears 
in  her  eyes,  no  matter  whether  it  were  a  verse  from  a  hymn, 
or  a  stanza  from  a  song.  Her  eldest  jsister  Mary,  a  thought 
ful  girl,  said  to  her  one  day,  « I  wish  you  very  much,  dear 
Annie,  to  learn  two  or  three  hymns  through,  and  when  Vou 
find  mamma  getting  quiet,  sing  them  to  her."  The  docile 
child  readily  acquiesced.  Mary,  guided  by  the  instincts  of  the 


15 


170  WIDOWHOOD. 

highest  feeling,  selected  the  hymns,  and  on  the  next  fitting 
occasion,  when  her  poor  mother  was  tranquillized,  and  the 
intervals  between  her  heart-breaking  sighs  were  longer,  Annie 
sang  the  following  beautiful  hymn  ;  she  had  till  then  sang 
those  most  familiar  and  hackneyed,  and  the  words  had  flowed 
on  the  sound  without  producing  any  impression.  The  con 
sciousness  of  having  a  purpose,  varied  the  general  monotony 
of  her  singing,  and  the  first  half  line  roused  her  mother's  at 
tention. 

"  Weep  thou,  O  mourner  !  but  in  lamentation 
May  thy  Redeemer  still  remembered  be  ; 
Strong  is  his  arm,  the  God  of  thy  salvation, 
Strong  is  his  love  to  cheer  and  comfort  thee. 

"  Cold  though  the  world  be  in  the  way  before  thee, 

Wail  not  in  sadness,  o'er  the  darkling  tomb; 

God  in  his  love,  still  watcheth  kindly  o'er  thee, 

Light  shineth  still  above  the  clouds  of  gloom. 

"  Dimmed  though  thine  eyes  be  with  the  tears  of  sorrow, 

Night  only  known  beneath  the  sky  of  time, 
Faith  can  behold  the  dawning  of  a  morrow 
Glowing  in  smiles  of  love,  and  joy  sublime. 

"  Change,  then,  O  mourner,  grief  to  exultation  ; 

Firm  and  confiding  may  thy  spirit  be  ; 
Strong  is  his  arm,  the  God  of  thy  salvation  ; 
Strong  is  his  love  to  cheer  and  comfort  thee  !" 


Before  Annie  finished  the  hymn,  her  mother  raised  her  head, 
and  leaning  on  her  elbow,  she  drank  in  every  word,  as  if  it 
were  inspiration  addressed  by  Heaven  to  her  soul.  When  the 
child  had  finished,  she  drew  her  to  her  bosom  and  wept,  for 
the  first  time,  freely,  tears  that  relieved  her  burdened  heart — 


WIDOWHOOD.  171 

tears  in  which  other  thoughts  than  those  of  grief  mingled. 
As  soon  as  she  could  speak,  she  said,  "  Annie,  sing  that  last 
verse  to  me  again." 

Annie  repeated  it,  and  her  mother  repeated  after  her  the 
last  line — 

"  Strong  is  His  love  to  cheer  and  comfort  thee  !" 

"  What  love  !"  she  added,  "  what  patience — with  me,  a 
wretched  rebel !" 

"  Oh,  don't  say  so,  mamma  !"  said  Annie.  "  I  have  one 
more  hymn  to  sing  to  you,  that  I  think  is  beautiful ;  shall  I 
sing  it  ?" 

"  Yes ;  yes,  dear  child,  sing  on,  and  God  grant  me  grace  to 
hear,"  she  added,  in  mental  prayer. 

Annie  sang  "  The  Angels  of  Grief,"  of  Whittier,  a  poet 
who  has  given  to  his  high  poetic  gifts  the  holiest  consecration. 

"  With  silence  only  as  their  benediction, 

God's  angels  come 

Where,  in  the  shadow  of  a  great  affliction, 
The  soul  sits  dumb. 

"  Yet  would  we  say  what  every  heart  approveth — 

Our  Father's  will, 

Calling  to  Him  the  dear  ones  whom  he  loveth, 
Is  mercy  still. 

"  Not  upon  us  or  ours  the  solemn  angel 

Hath  evil  wrought  ; 
The  funeral  anthem  is  a  glad  evangel ; 
The  good  die  not." 

A  few  moments'  silence  followed.     Emily  then  kissed  her 


17*2  WIDOWHOOD. 

child,  with  a  quiet  tenderness  that  she  had  not  before  shown, 
and  dismissed  her.  She  did  not  remain  in  bed,  sighing  and 
lamenting,  but  she  arose  and  passed  the  night  in  walking  her 
chamber,  or  on  her  knees.  She  reproached  herself  bitterly. 
She  felt  that  she  had  forgotten  her  religious  profession — that 
she  had  denied  her  Lord  in  suffering  her  faith  and  love  to  be 
consumed  in  the  furnace  from  which  they  should  have  come 
out  purified.  Now,  for  the  first,  it  seemed  to  her  that  she  re 
ceived  her  husband's  last  words  to  her, — "  Trust  in  God,  as  I 
now  do,  my  Emily.  His  will  be  done."  He,  in  his  extremity, 
was  willing,  she  thought.  He  rose  above  the  storm— the  tem 
pest  carried  away  my  trust.  He  reposed  in  me — he  thought, 
in  that  dreadful  hour,  that  he  might  commit  the  children  to 
my  care.  I  have  forgotten  them,  and  every  other  duty — I 
have  lain,  like  a  vine  torn  from  the  tree  that  supported  it,  pros 
trate,  withering,  and  dying,  and  I  am  a  creature  endowed 
with  a  capacity  to  do  as  well  as  to  suffer.  In_  my  prosperity, 
I  believed  I  was  a  Christian  ! — how  have  I  sunk  below  the  re 
quirements  of  this  profession.  Have  I  been  patient  in  tribula 
tion  ?  Have  I  submitted  to  the  fellowship  of  suffering — of 
self-forgetfulness  —  of  self-renunciation.  No,  no  !  I  have 
thought  only  of  myself.  I  have  dared  to  expect  that  life 
should  continue  the  joy  it  has  been.  And  now,  as  I  am  re 
solved  to  look  forward,  and  not  back,  God  help  me ! 

The  next  morning,  to  the  astonishment  of  her  children, 
Emily  appeared  among  them.  She  took  her  accustomed 
place  at  table,  and  calmly  served  them.  She  even  spoke  to 
them  of  their  father,  and  of  the  double  duty  that  had  now  de 
volved  upon  her.  She  felt  a  faintness  coming  over,  and  de 
sisted,  wisely  resolving  to  enter  by  degrees  upon  her  new  field 
of  labour. 


WIDOWHOOD.  173 

Life  had  utterly  changed  to  her.  During  her  husband's  life, 
she  had  been  the  objeqt  of  constant  indulgence,  and  a  tender 
ness  that  fenced  off  not  only  evil,  but  whatever  was  uncom 
fortable  and  disagreeable.  This  is  a  false  position  ;  it  cannot 
last.  There  is  no  petting  in  life.  The  school  of  Providence 
is  a  school  of  discipline  and  trial.  Emily 

"  Had  slept,  and  dreamed  that  life  was  beauty — 
She  waked,  and  found  that  life  was  duty." 

But  this  duty  was  to  make  her  a  higher  and  nobler  being. 
Till  now  she  had  been  gentle,  sweet,  and  attractive,  but  loving 
a  life  of  passive  and  indulged  invalidism,  she  had  had  scarcely 
more  to  do  \vith  actual  affairs,  than  the  ladies  of  a  Haram.  If 
she  had  died  then,  she  would  have  left  no  void  but  in  the  hearts 
of  those  that  loved  her.  She  had  now  to  seal  her  sorrows  up 
in  her  own  breast ;  to  endure  patiently  and  silently  her  own 
loneliness ;  to  make  sunshine  for  others,  while  she  felt  that  her 
whole  life  must  wear  out  in  chill  dreary  shadow.  But  she 
had  religiously  resolved,  and  she  amazed  her  friends  with  her 
noiseless  vigour.  She  found,  on  investigation,  that  her  income 
was  reduced  to  very  narrow  limits.  She  courageously  and 
at  once  reduced  her  expenses  to  her  means. 

Some  women  deem  it  unfeminine  to  take  care  of  their  pecu 
niary  affairs,  and  certainly  their  training  and  social  arrange 
ments  are  unfavourable  to  their  qualification  for  this  care.  To 
Emily  there  was  but  one  question ;  is  this  my  duty  ?  that 
ascertained  she  went  forward  and  did  it.  She  sought  advice 
when  she  needed  it,  and  aid  where  she  required  it,  but,  for  the 
most  part,  she  took  care  of  her  owrn  concerns,  and  she  "  saw 
wrell  to  the  wrays  of  her  household." 

She  provided  for  the  education  of  her  children ;  she  sighed 

15* 


174  WIDOWHOOD. 

to  be  obliged  to  renounce  advantages  for  them  which  she  had 
once  counted  upon  as  matters  of  course,  but  "  It  is  well,"  she 
said, — "  the  necessity  of  putting  forth  all  their  powers  and 
making  the  most  of  all  their  means  is  better  than  Harvard  for 
my  boys,  and  the  '  first  masters'  for  my  girls."  She  now  truly 
honoured  her  husband's  memory,  and  justified  his  love. 

She  made  her  home  a  scene  of  cheerfulness  to  her  children, 
a  pjeasant  gathering-place  to  her  friends. 

What  had  become  of  the  elegant  leisure,  the  luxurious  indo- 
f  lence  of  Emily  Winthrop  ?  They  had  given  place  to  virtuous, 
productive  activity.  Where  was  the  invalidism  that  all  the 
appliances  of  love  had  but  served  to  nurture  ? 

No  allopathy,  homoeopathy,  or  hydropathy  had  been  called 
in,  but.  mental  energy  and  heart-energy  had  supplied  that 
wonderful  power  called  nervous  energy;  and  from  day  to 
day,  and  year  to  year  her  strength  was  equal  to  the  demands 
upon  it. 

The  young  maiden  invested  with  beauty  and  hope  and  pro 
mise,  strikes  our  imagination.  The  happy  wife  has  all  our 
sympathies;  but  she  who  extracts  patience  and  peace  from 
her  own  privations,  who  converts  her  own  weakness  into 
strength  for  others,  who  in  her  own  waste  places  produces 
flowers  and  fruits  for  them,  who  walks  alone  through  rough 
places  leaning  on  the  Unseen — she — the  sanctified  widow — 
has  our  highest  reverence. 


A   FAREWELL. 


BY  L.  J.  CIST, 


I. 

DREAMS  OF  MY  YOUTH — Farewell ! 

The  dreams  my  boyhood  knew, 
When  fancy  o'er  me  first,  her  spell 

Of  blest  enchantment  threw — 
Weaving,  with  thousand  threads, 

A  golden  tissue  fair, 
For  ruthless  time  to  tear  in  shreds, 

And  scatter  to  the  air : 
Visions  of  love  and  joy  ! 

Gay  dreams  !  the  magic  spell 
Ye  cast  around  me,  when  a  boy, 

Is  broken  now  ! — Farewell ! 


II. 

HOPES  OF  MY  YOUTH — Adieu  ! 

Fair  plants  of  earlier  years, 
Warmed  by  whose  sunny  smiles  ye  grew 

To  perish  since,  in  tears : 


170  A    F  A  R  E  W  E  L  L. 

Fond  hopes,  too  bright  to  last, 

Where  now's  your  dwelling-place  ? 
In  the  sad  memories  of  THE  PAST 

Your  airy  flight  I  trace : 
Hopes,  whose  aspiring  aim 

'Twere  mockery  now  to  tell — 
High  hopes  of  Honours,  Wealth,  and  Fame, 

All  perished  now  ! — Farewell ! 

III. 

LOVE  OF  MY  YOUTH — Farewell ! 

The  fairest  thou,  of  all 
The  many  cherished  dreams,  whose  spell 

Held  my  young  heart  in  thrall : 
A  form  too  bright  for  Earth, 

Wherein,  by  Fancy  blent, 
Was  all  earth's  loveliness  and  worth 

In  one  embodiment ! 
Time  was,  of  thoughts  that  came 

From  feeling's  deepest  cell ; 
The  fondest  started  at  thy  name — 

'Tis  ended  now  ! — Farewell ! 

IV. 

LYRE  OF  MY  YOUTH — Adieu  ! 

Whose  chords,  though  feebly  swept, 
My  spirit's  strength  could  yet  renew 

When  tears  I  else  had  wept : 
Thine  still  the  gentle  tone — 

When  pressed  by  care  and  pain, 


A   FAREWELL.  177 

So  well  according  with  my  own — 

I  sought,  nor  sought  in  vain. 
Scarce  from  thy  quivering  strings, 

Neglected  long  thy  spell, 
My  faltering  touch  this  faint  note  wrings ; 

And  now,  sweet  lyre — Farewell ! 


MANHOOD. 

BY  THE  REV.  M.  A.  DE  WOLFE  HOWE. 

"  No  mountain  can 

Measure  with  a  perfect  man. 
For  it  is  on  temples  writ, 
Adamant  is  soft  to  wit." 

EMERSON. 

WHAT  language  can  fully  develope  the  world  of  meaning 
which  seeks  expression  in  this  single  word  !     It  is  the  symbol 

of  the  most  comprehensive  idea  which  creation  affords, the 

sign  of  presence  for  that  central  thought  around  which  all 
other  thoughts  conform.  It  embodies  the  perfected  work  of 
Him  who  is  perfection ;  and  brings  to  the  ear  the  echo  of  that 
voice,  which,  when  man  was  fashioned,  and  not  till  then, 
pronounced  everything  very  good.  It  surpasses  even  the 
Paradise  of  unfallen  humanity,  and  pictures  to  the  mind  the 
liveliest  semblance  which  could  be  given,  of  Him  who  will 
sanction  no  image  of  himself,  save  that  which  His  own  power 
has  wrought,  and  into  which  His  spirit  has  breathed  the  breath 
of  life  ! 


MANHOOD.  179 

Infancy  wins  upon  our  regard  by  its  helplessness  and  de 
pendence.  Childhood  arrests  our  love  and  wonder  by  its  inno 
cence,  its  faith,  its  swelling  germs  of  greatness.  Youth  fills 
our  hearts  with  affectionate  solicitude,  by  its  buoyancy, 
its  glad  hope,  its  matured  and  impatient  energies,  its  mani 
fest  capacity  for  good,  and  fearful  liability  to  evil.  Man 
hood  overwhelms  us,  by  the  demonstration  of  its  godlike 
power, — that  finished  type  of  creation,  for  which  all  things 
else  wrere  made !  Its  attainment  is  an  event  more  signal  than 
the  accession  of  a  king  to  his  throne ; — it  is  a  dignity  greater 
than  the  princes  of  the  earth  can  bestow.  It  has  in  it  the 
essence  of  true  nobility. 

"  Rank  is  but  the  guinea's  stamp, 
The  man's  the  gold  for  a'  that." 

This  would  be  an  overstrained  description  of  manhood,  if  it 
were  limited  in  meaning  to  a  bare  legal  complement  of  years. 
Many  a  youth  deceives  himself  with  the  vain  expectation  that 
time  is  hastening  to  make  him  a  man,  and  that  he  has  but  to 
drift  passively  on  its  current,  into  the  possession  of  all  those 
high  immunities  which  belong  of  right  to  our  perfected  nature. 
He  expects  to  be  fashioned  like  a  rock,  or  a  tree,  by  the  slow, 
and  spontaneous  accretion  of  what  is  destined  to  constitute  his 
integrity;  and  looks  with  wistful,  almost  envious  regard  upon 
one  who  has  grown  to  the  stature  which  gives  a  semblance  of 
maturity ; — as  if  immortal  man,  like  an  ox,  or  an  ass,  could 
manifest  his  ripeness  by  bulk  and  strength.  Manhood  involves 
in  its  meaning,  not  so  much  what  we  may  have  in  common 
with  the  brutes,  as  what  is  distinctive  of  our  race, — maturity 
of  mind  and  soul. 


180  MANHOOD. 

No  exhibition  is  more  revolting  to  one  of  true  perceptions, 
than  the  vanity  of  personal  development  which  some  crea 
tures  display,  who  have  nothing  of  the  man  about  them 
except  the  tenement  of  flesh  which  God  built  for  manhood  to 
reside  in ! — strutting  and  curvetting  like  a  peacock  in  the  sun, 
when  a  peacock's  head  \vould  contain  all  the  sentient  brain 
which  they  possess. 

In  common  parlance,  we  speak  as  if  manhood  were  a 
common  thing ;  and  men  are  thought  to  abound  in  every 
multitude ;  but,  in  truth,  manhood  is  as  rare  as  diamonds,  and 
he  has  had  a  vision  of  glory,  who  has  looked  upon  the  being 
whom  the  angels  that  chaunted  the  introit  of  our  first  father  to 
•  the  holy  earth,  would  acknowledge  as  a  man.  Manhood  be 
speaks  the  lofty  mind — the  generous  soul ;  it  is  the  result  of 
culture,  not  the  product  of  years.  It  developes  by  its  own 
activity,  and  not  by  physical  expansion,  or  extraneous  ap 
pliances.  It  may  become  morally  colossal,  by  the  blessing  of 
Heaven  on  its  accumulative  energies, — or  its  very  germ  may 
die  out  by  apathy,  and  leave  but  the  living  carcass, — a  monu 
ment  of  superfluous  magnificence,  to  tell  of  the  littleness  that 
has  been,  and  is  not. 

Manhood  is  attainable  by  all,  but  cometh  not  like  property, 
by  descent.  He  who  would  gain  it,  must  earn  it  by  patient 
i  toil.  It  is  above,  not  below  him ;  no  moral  gravitation  will 
bring  him  unerring  to  its  sphere.  He  who  would  reach  it, 
must  climb  up  to  it,  as  a  tourist  to  the  top  of  a  mountain  ! 
He  is  a  hero,  who,  considerately  regarding  his  splendid  capa 
cities,  and  his  responsibility  for  their  improvement,  does  not 
stand  in  awe  of  himself,  and  desire  with  trembling,  that  he  had 
been  made  less  ample  for  reception,  or  had  been  better  sup 
plied  by  the  gratuitous  bounty  of  Heaven. 


MANHOOD.  181 

The  pride  of  the  natural  heart  leads  many  to  presume,  that 
they  are  what  they  might  be, — and  from  them  we  hear  rhap 
sodies  on  the  dignity  of  man.  They  take  affront  at  every 
admonition  which  bids  him  cultivate  the  elements  of  high  cha 
racter,  and  confess  themselves  obnoxious  to  only  such  instruc 
tion  as  assumes  its  considerable  advancement  and  provides  for 
its  perfection.  The  moral  dignity  of  man  attaches  not  to  his 
actual  position,  but  to  his  privilege  of  surpassing  it.  And,  for 
the  lofty  superstructure  to  which  he  may  be  raised,  there 
needs  not  the  mad  confidence,  which  will  not  look  whether  the 
foundation  be  secure,  but  the  diligent  and  judicious  adjustment 
of  those  substantial  forms,  on  which  a  tower  of  moral  strength 
and  beauty  may  be  raised,  whose  top  shall  reach  even  to 
Heaven. 

The  interest  which  attaches  to  maturity  of  years,  when 
viewed  in  connexion  with  these  waiting  capabilities  of  man,  is 
transcendent.  When  every  instrument  of  the  soul  is  seen  to 
be  complete,  who  can  fail  to  be  solicitous,  whether  the  in 
dwelling  intelligence  is  ripe  for  their  employment  ?  When  the 
manly  form  is  developed  in  all  its  beauty, — strength  and  elas 
ticity  exuberant  in  every  limb — life  beaming  in  the  eye — 
health  flushing  on  the  cheek  —  expansion  and  loftiness  en 
nobling  the  brov\, — who  can  suppress  the  inquiry,  is  there  a 
tenant  within  worthy  of  this  mansion  ? — a  soul  which  can 
occupy  and  fill  these  rare  apartments  ?  Or  is  there  here  some 
little  miserly  spirit,  crouching  in  a  dim  corner,  proud  of  the 
splendour  of  its  abode,  which  it  has  not  the  magnanimity  to 
appreciate,  nor  the  intelligence  to  use  ? 

He,  for  whom  nature  is  building  such  a  soul-palace,  should 
be  diligent  in  the  culture  of  those  moral  and  mental  attributes 

16 


182  MANHOOD. 

which  nature  will  not  bestow,  lest  when  the  structure  is  com 
pleted,  it  serve  no  better  purpose  than  to  foster  at  once  his 
own  vanity,  and  draw  upon  him  the  scorn  of  others.  For  the 
wrind  which  swells  a  bubble,  while  it  attracts  attention  to  the 
greatness  of  the  circumference,  illustrates  the  thinness  and 
transparency  of  the  surface,  and  betrays  the  nothingness  that 
is  within. 

A  character  formed  on  the  true  model,  is  now  present  to  my 
thoughts.  He  passed  his  youth  amid  mountain  scenery,  and 
inhaled  strong  influences  from  its  racy  breezes.  The  grand 
and  beautiful  of  nature  transcribed  itself  upon  his  soul  as  the 
pendent  willows  reappear  in  the  subjacent  waters.  Manual 
industry  invigorated  his  youth,  and  rural  friendships  imbued 
the  elements  of  his  mind  with  true  simplicity.  The  endow 
ments  of  literary  education  came  like  the  carvings  which  are 
brought  to  grace  a  magnificent  building  after  the  broad  foun 
dations  were  settled,  and  the  substantial  forms  of  the  super 
structure  compacted.  Nothing  false  or  factitious  could  be 
insinuated  between  its  nicely-adjusted  parts. 

His  mind  grappled  with  knowledge  and  took  it  into  posses 
sion  with  masterly  power,  for  its  vigour  was  unworn,  and 
grown  restive  for  exercise. 

Seclusion  could  not  be  held  by  such  a  character.  He 
was  called  forth  to  enrich  the  many  with  his  salubrious  in 
fluences. 

He  stands  in  the  high  places  of  society,  athletic  as  an  Indian 
chief;  with  an  intellect  of  transcendent  power,  enriched  with 
varied  learning;  with  a  heart  great  as  the  greatest,  replete 
with  all  noble  sentiments,  and  kindly  sympathies ;  and  with 
manners  simple,  and  honest  as  a  little  child's.  The  dignity 


MANHOOD.  183 

which  consists  in  staid  reserve,  and  constrained  sobriety  be 
longs  not  to  him,  but  only  that,  which  conscious  of  mental 
purity,  results  unbidden  from  the  frank  display  of  every 
thought  and  emotion. 

The  factitious  world  calls  him  sometimes  frivolous,  some 
times  absent-minded  and  rude.  He  is  but  playful  when  his 
spirit  falls  into  that  mood,  and  enjoys  occasions  for  its  indul 
gence.  He  is  sometimes  absent  in  mind  from  the  scene  in 
which  he  personally  stands;  but  'tis  a  sweet  vagrancy  of 
nature,  in  which  his  thought,  true  to  its  destination,  wanders 
from  company,  but  never  beguiles  him  into  loss  of  himself. 
They  who  know  him  best  admire  him  most  for  this  token  of 
the  simplicity  and  truthfulness  of  his  mind.  He  is  never  rude, 
though  he  often  violates  the  precepts  of  Chesterfield.  He  is 
never  courtly,  though  his  voice  is  often  attuned  to  the  kindliest 
language,  and  his  face  beaming  with  benignant  smiles.  He  is 
just  the  child  of  nature,  speaking  and  acting  what  he  feels ; 
and  always  feeling  as  much  of  kindness  towards  his  fellows 
as  is  consistent  with  the  common  depravity  and  his  own  high 
principle. 

I  have  written  him  the  child  of  Nature,  but,  in  a  lofty  sense, 
he  is  the  child  of  grace;  his  "adorning  is  the  hidden  man  of  the 
heart."  Every  faculty  is  consecrated  to  God.  The  high  cul 
ture  of  his  soul  is  the  most  conspicuous  manifestation  of  his 
character.  What  is  sanctified  and  spiritual  in  his  nature, 
lends  its  grace  and  beauty  to  all  his  doings,  and,  like  sunlight 
through  the  trees,  which  gilds  every  leaf  and  defines  every 
shadow,  it  tells  also  of  an  unclouded  sky,  and  a  meridian  sun 
above. 

If  earth  were  peopled  with  such  men,  it  would  not  bring 


184  MANHOOD. 

forth  thorns  and  briers  in  their  pathway,  nor  would  an  angel, 
with  flaming  sword,  forbid  the  access  of  any  to  the  tree  of 
life. 


"  If  life  were  all  like  this  to  you  and  me, 

How  would  it  matter  to  be  young  or  old  ? 
Where  is  the  privilege  of  youth's  buoyancy, 
Could  we  thus  turn  Time's  iron  scythe  to  gold  ? 

The  pleasures  given 

To  man  were  all  too  great,  and  there  would  be 
No  want  of  heaven. 

'  Let  us  go  forth,  and  resolutely  dare, 

With  sweat  of  brow,  to  toil  our  little  day, — 
And  if  a  tear  fall  on  the  task  of  care, 
In  memory  of  those  spring-hours  past  away 

Brush  it  not  by  ! — 
Our  hearts  to  God  !  to  brother-men 
Aid,  labour,  blessing,  prayer,  and  then 
To  these  a  sigh  !" 


HUMAN  POWER. 

BY  THOMAS  BUCHANAN  READ. 

MAN,  like  his  Eden  sire,  walks  fresh  from  God, 

In  panoply  of  majesty  and  power ; 

And  stands  upon  his  mount  of  strength  supreme, 

Firm  footed  as  the  oak.     The  earth  is  his, 

For  he  has  forced  the  king  of  beasts  to  crouch,  and  brought 

The  eagle  from  his  eyried  crag,  and  made 

A  traffic  of  the  seas  leviathan ; 

And  from  the  mountain's  stubborn  breast  hath  torn 

Its  iron  heart,  or  traced  the  rich  red  ore 

Along  its  shining  veins.     The  vales,  where  erst 

Free  nature  held  her  sabbath  all  the  year, 

He  fills  with  week-day  turmoil ;  and  the  woods 

Are  bowed  before  him,  while  the  quiet  trees 

Are  moulded  into  temples  broad  and  high, 

Or  hewn  to  build  the  ocean's  winged  arks, 

That  link  together  far  ends  of  the  earth 

With  chains  of  Commerce  over  dangerous  seas. 

Man  spreads  the  sail,  and  with  his  strong  right  arm 

He  holds  the  helm  against  the  tempest's  wrath ; 

16* 


186  HUMAN    POWER. 

Or  when  the  treacherous  reef  is  struck,  he  clasps 
The  fainting  form  and  struggles  to  the  shore. 
He  wears  his  country's  arms,  and  faces  death 
To  plant  above  the  bulwarks  of  the  foe 
The  standard  of  his  native  land. 

Than  this 

A  faculty  diviner  still  is  his; 
For  he  hath  on  the  walls  of  science  stood, 
Gray  walls,  whose  towering  turrets  well-nigh  reach 
The  prophet's  dome  of  inspiration ; — there 
With  all  the  book  of  space  before  him  spread, 
Hath  read  its  starry  pages,  and  transcribed 
Its  wonders  for  the  waiting  world  below ! 

But  man,  endowed  with  all  the  powers  of  earth, 
The  form  majestic,  and  the  strong  right  arm, 
With  intellect  to  penetrate  the  skies, 
T'  unriddle  the  enigma  of  the  stars, — 
Must  cast  aside  his  dusty  strength,  and  lay 
His  little  knowledge  humbly  by,  and  take 
The  tender  innocence  which  childhood  wears, 
And  he  shall  be  invested  with  the  power, 
The  majesty,  and  wisdom  of  the  immortals. 


SCENE   IN  A   STUDIO. 


BY  THE  AUTHOR  OF    "WREATHS  AND  BRANCHES." 


A  distinguished  sculptor  destroyed  some  of  his  finest  works,  that  they  might  not  fall  into 
the  hands  of  an  inexorable  creditor. 


YE  bring  sweet  balm 

To  many  weary  ones,  O  Night  and  Sleep  ! 
But  there  are  hearts  which  wake  to  keener  sorrow, 
When  Nature's  self  is  lulled  to  peaceful  rest. 
The  rural  city,  bathed  in  evening  dew, 
Now  sweetly  slept ;  its  myriad  elms  stirred  not 
Their  lightest  branches,  as  they  feared  to  wake 
The  little  birds  whom  late  they  rocked  to  sleep 
Amid  their  clust'ring  boughs,  and  the  pale  moon 
Shone  forth  in  brightness, — for  the  orbs  of  Heav'n 
Pale  not  because  they  look  on  human  wo. 

'Tis  midnight,  yet  a  flickering  torch  still  gleams 
Within  the  sculptor's  studio,  whose  light 
Gives  a  new  beauty  to  those  forms  of  grace, 
The  emanations  of  one  master-mind, 
And  called  to  life  by  his  creative  power. 


188  SCENE   IN    A   STUDIO. 

The  Artist  grasps  his  chisel,  but  the  glow 

That  mantles  high  upon  his  brow  is  not 

The  fire  of  new-born  inspiration, 

For  Prometheus'  self  ne'er  wore  a  look 

Of  such  despairing  agony.     Oh,  sure 

It  were  a  glorious  thing  to  people  earth 

With  thought  made  palpable,  and  chaining  thus 

The  lightning-fire  of  Heaven,  bid  it  flash  forth 

From  lip  and  brow,  instinct  with  majesty ! 

Yes  !  Genius  is  a  gift  unparalleled, 

But  guarded  round  with  fearful  swords  of  flame, 

That  foot  profane  tread  not  the  hallowed  ground. 

With  all  his  consciousness 
Of  power,  the  Sculptor  felt,  that,  like  the  slave 
Of  Eastern  clime  whose  breathing  form  was  chained 
To  ghastly  death,  his  soul  was  fettered  fast 
To  a  mere  lifeless  clod.     Though  rich  in  mind, 
He  long  had  struggled  for  the  pittance  poor 
Less-gifted  souls  might  easier  win,  than  he 
Whose  element  was  not  this  world  of  care. 
With  what  a  look  of  wo  he  gazes  now 
Upon  that  work,  to  which  so  many  days 
And  sleepless  nights  were  giv'n !     Now  it  neared 
The  image  in  his  heart,  the  bright  ideal, 
Which  it  had  been  the  effort  of  his  life 
To  body  forth,  that  generations  yet 
To  come  might  gaze  thereon,  and  kindling  thought 
And  impulse  new,  to  lofty  virtue  given, 
Immutably  attest  its  high  divinity. 


SCENE  IN   A   STUDIO.  189 

Not  to  perpetuate  himself,  had  been 
The  Sculptor's  aim,  but  to  transfer  the  vision 
Of  his  soul  to  men  whom  it  might  bless, 
And  thus  discharge  the  high  responsibility 
Which  every  spirit  owns,  that  innate  feels 
A  revelation  new  from  Heaven. 

Ah  !  now  a  kindling  smile  lights  up  his  eye — 

Though  Genius  weep,  it  is  not  quenched  in  tears ; — 

Once  more  the  Artist  glories  in  his  work, 

And  quite  forgets  that  hands,  most  rude,  ere  long 

Shall  tear  his  idol  from  its  secret  shrine ; 

He  feels  again  the  ardour  of  his  youth, 

And  fellowship  with  those,  whose  struggling  life 

Was  but  the  prelude  to  the  song  of  praise, 

That  since  has  gushed  spontaneous  from  each  heart 

That  felt  their  priceless  worth,  and  mourned  their  fate. 

But  what  is  this  ?     Has  frenzy  seized  his  brain  ? 
Quick  falls  the  mallet,  not  with  well-aimed  stroke, 
To  guide  the  skilful  chisel,  and  perfect 
The  fair  proportions. — Stay  thy  hand,  rash  man  ! 
Comes  there  no  voice  from  this,  the  beauteous  child 
Of  thy  creative  thought,  which  cries,  "  Forbear  ! 
One  hour  of  madness  must  not  thus  destroy 
The  labour  of  thy  ripened  years." 

'Tis  done !     The  shivering  marble  falls  around 

O 

The  wo-bewildered  man,  who  gazes  now 
With  tearless  eye  upon  that  martyred  one, 
Whose  shapeless  trunk  but  seems  his  agony 


100  SCENE   IN   A    STUDIO. 

To  mock ;  yet  onward  recklessly  he  goes, 

And  all  the  beauteous  ones  that  he  had  loved 

The  Venus  fair,  the  Manes  of  the  ancient  gods, 
The  busts  of  heroes,  and  the  dreamlike  ones, 
With  their  life's  fountain  faintly  gushing  forth 
From  out  the  stricken  rock,  at  his  command- 
All  ! — all  must  perish  ! — 
Oh  ruin  dire !  yet,  sadder  still  the  wreck 
Of  mind,  which  misery  hath  wrought. 


THE    MERIDIAN   OF   LIFE. 

BY  THE  REV.  WILLIAM  B.  SPRAGUE,  D.D. 

OF  all  the  forms  of  existence  that  come  within  the  range  of 
our  senses,  that  which  has  the  highest  claims  to  our  regard 
and  veneration,  is  humanity.  The  world  which  we  inhabit 
is  a  great  and  beautiful  world.  The  bright  orbs  above  us, 
which  are  for  ever  sweeping  their  courses  through  immensity, 
are  so  many  glorious  witnesses  to  the  wisdom,  the  power,  the 
majesty  of  the  Creator:  but  all  these  worlds,  with  all  the 
goodly  furniture  which  they  contain,  are  material ;  they  move 
in  obedience  to  the  external  impulses;  the  living  principle  does 
not  pertain  to  them,  unless  it  be  in  that  humblest  of  all  forms — 
vegetable  existence.  Ascending  from  the  clods  of  the  valley, 
we  find  ourselves  in  the  animal  kingdom  :  there  are  around  us 
creatures  innumerable,  of  various  forms  and  habits,  instinct 
with  life,  filling  the  several  spheres  and  performing  the  several 
parts  which  the  Creator  has  allotted  to  them ;  and  though  the 
different  tribes  rise  above  each  other  by  perceptible  gradations, 
and  though  some  of  them  possess  great  instinctive  sagacity 
and  forecast,  yet  the  boundary  between  the  mere  animal  and 


192  THE   MERIDIAN    OF   LIFE. 

the  man  is  so  distinctly  marked,  that  it  is  not  easy,  even  by  an 
effort  of  imagination,  to  confound  them.  It  is  true  indeed  that 
the  beginning  of  human  existence  gives  little  more  promise  of 
intelligence  or  ability,  than  the  commencement  of  mere  animal 
life ;  if  we  had  no  experience  on  the  subject,  we  should  say 
that  there  was  as  much  to  indicate  reason  and  greatness,  and 
immortality  in  the  bleating  of  the  lamb,  as  in  the  crying  of  the 
child ;  but  we  quickly  find  that  the  faculties  of  the  one  are 
stationary,  while  those  of  the  other  are  progressive ;  that  the 
one  is  admirably  fitted  to  perform  its  part  as  the  creature  of  a 
day,  while  the  other  is  endowed  with  a  principle  to  whose 
developments  and  achievements  it  is  impossible  to  assign  a 
limit.  There  are  indeed  reasons  enough  why  a  man  should 
think  humbly  of  himself; — reasons  growing  out  of  his  own 
self-depravation  as  well  as  of  his  original  relative  inferiority ; 
and  yet  there  is  abundant  cause  why  he  should  not  dishonour 
himself  as  a  noble  piece  of  the  divine  workmanship ; — why  he 
should  reverence  his  own  nature  in  comparison  even  with  the 
highest  of  the  works  of  God  that  come  within  the  field  of  his 
vision. 

And  if  humanity  is  the  brightest  form  of  existence  that 
belongs  to  this  lower  world,  the  noblest  stage  of  humanity  is 
its  meridian.  Infancy  is  indeed  deeply  interesting  both  for  its 
helplessness  and  its  loveliness.  Youth  is  full  of  buoyancy  and 
brightness  and  hope ;  we  imagine  that  we  see  in  it  not  only 
the  embryo  character  of  the  man,  but  the  elements  of  a  future 
seraph  or  fiend.  Old  age  too,  with  all  its  evil  days  and  op 
pressive  burdens,  is  in  some  respects,  a  glorious  stage  of  exis 
tence  ;  if  it  awakens  our  sympathy,  it  awakens  our  veneration 
also ;  and  we  often  find  ourselves  admonished,  instructed,  even 
comforted  by  it,  up  to  the  very  time  that  it  disappears  among 


THE   MERIDIAN    OF   LIFE.  193 

the  shadows  of  the  tomb.  But  the  period  that  intervenes  between 
youth  and  old  age,  is  emphatically  the  season  of  action — the 
working-day  oFlife.  The  sun  is  then  at  its  meridian  ;  and  if 
man  is  not  then  a  noble  being,  and  does  not  perform  a  noble 
part,  there  is  little  reason  to  expect  that  there  ever  will  be  any 
record  of  him  either  on  earth  or  in  Heaven,  in  which  he  will 
have  occasion  to  rejoice. 

It  is  interesting  to  contemplate  this  period  in  its  relation  to 
the  one  that  hath  preceded  it.  It  may  be  considered  as  the 
repository  of  all  those  influences  which  have  been  exerted,  of 
those  impressions  which  have  been  produced,  from  the  moment 
that  the  seeds  of  thought  and  feeling  began  to  germinate.  The 
forming  process  began  while  the  infant  was  yet  in  the  cradle. 
The  accents  of  maternal  love,  were  responded  to  in  emotions, 
which,  however  transient  in  their  character,  still  left  their  im 
press  upon  the  soul.  The  first  objects  with  which  the  mind 
was  conversant,  the  first  lesson  which  it  was  taught,  however 
little  they  may  seem  to  have  been  heeded,  have  not  improbably 
given  to  it  a  deep,  perhaps  a  permanent  tinge.  And  as  child 
hood  succeeds  infancy,  it  brings  with  it  its  influences  adapted 
to  a  somewhat  higher  development  of  the  faculties ;  especially 
to  the  development  of  the  social  principle.  The  imitative 
faculty  particularly  is  now  called  into  exercise ;  and  through 
this  medium  the  mind  is  acted  upon  by  other  minds  with  cer 
tain  and  irresistible  effects.  And  then,  what  an  assemblage  of 
influences  are  brought  to  bear  upon  the  character  through  the 
period  of  youth,  considered  as  distinct  from  childhood !  How 
much  is  accomplished  for  good  or  evil  by  domestic  influence, 
by  the  intellectual  and  moral  atmosphere  which  pervades  the 
family  of  which  the  individual  is  a  member  !  What  a  varied 
and  complicated  instrumentality  for  forming  the  character 

17 


]94  THE   MERIDIAN    OF    LIFE. 

belongs  to  the  whole  matter  of  education !  How  much  too 
depends  upon  casual  associations ;  upon  the  connexions  more 
or  less  important  or  enduring  which  a  youth  is  likely  to  form ; 
upon  the  thousand  nameless  circumstances  by  which  his  lot  is 
sure  to  be  marked !  Indeed,  it  is  not  too  much  to  say  that,  in 
all  ordinary  cases,  the  mind  has  received  its  decisive  stamp 
before  the  opening  of  manhood ;  that  it  has  accumulated  all 
those  great  elements  of  thought,  feeling,  action,  which  are  to 
constitute  the  basis  of  the  permanent  character. 

Now  let  it  be  remembered,  that  as  youth  is  the  training  sea 
son  for  manhood,  so  mature  manhood  is  the  legitimate  heir  to  all 
the  impressions  and  acquisitions  of  youth.  Whatever  intellec 
tual  furniture  may  have  been  gathered — whatever  moral  habits, 
good  or  bad,  may  have  been  formed — during  the  earlier  years, 
all,  all  becomes  the  property  of  the  man  ;  and  if  the  faculties 
have  opened  under  benign  influences,  and  have  received  a  vir 
tuous  direction,  manhood,  in  the  very  commencement  of  its 
career,  is,  in  the  best  sense,  rich.  There  may  be,  or  there  may 
not  be,  in  its  possession  an  abundance  of  this  world's  goods, 
but  be  that  as  it  may,  there  is  that  better  portion,  that  becomes 
incorporated  with  the  mind  itself — there  is  the  foundation  of  a 
noble  character — there  is  the  pledge  of  an  exalted  destiny. 

Now  let  us  view  enlightened  and  virtuous  manhood,  in  its 
direct  actings,  both  upon  itself  and  upon  the  world.  The 
spirit  of  a  man,  in  the  circumstances  which  are  here  supposed, 
is  always  brightening  into  a  better  and  more  glorious  form. 
It  is  subjected  to  a  deep  and  constant  culture;  and  what  it  has 
gained  in  youth,  instead  of  satisfying  its  lofty  aspirations,  is 
only  regarded  as  the  first  step  in  the  career  of  true  greatness. 
By  vigorous  and  well-directed  exercise,  the  mind  becomes 
more  and  more  acquainted  with  its  own  powers;  it  learns  to 


THE   MERIDIAN    OF   LIFE.  195 

fathom  depths  which  had  once  seemed  to  it  unfathomable ;  it 
discovers  in  itself  a  capacity  for  bold  and  lofty  action,  of 
\\liidi,  in  the  (lavs  of  its  youth  and  feebleness,  it  had  never 
dreamed;  in  a  word,  it  gets  more  and  more  imbued  with  a 
sense  of  its  own  inherent  dignity,  and  acts  more  and  more  in 
accordance  with  the  character  and  will  of  the  Creator. 

But  while  manhood,  walking  in  the  light  of  truth  and  duty, 
is  always  growing  brighter  in  its  aspirations,  and  stronger  in 
its  powers,  and  nobler  in  its  whole  character,  let  it  not  be  for 
gotten  that  it  acts  with  a  benign  and  powerful  influence  upon 
other  minds ; — as  the  case  may  be,  upon  an  entire  community, 
or  even  upon  the  world.  It  is  true,  indeed,  that  both  the 
earlier  and  the  later  stages  of  life  have  their  duties,  and  im 
portant  duties  too,  devolved  upon  them ;  and  the  aged  particu 
larly,  are  sometimes  put  in  requisition  for  services  of  the 
highest  moment — services,  for  which  nothing  short  of  a  long 
experience  could  qualify  them ;  but  after  all,  it  remains  true, 
that  all  the  great  interests  of  society  are  entrusted  peculiarly 
to  the  keeping  and  direction  of  those  in  middle  life.  Who  are 
they  that  stand  foremost  in  the  walks  of  civil  influence  arid 
authority,  who  can  scarcely  speak  in  a  corner,  but  that  what 
they  say  takes  the  form  of  a  law,  and  flies  almost  with  the 
speed  of  a  sunbeam  all  over  the  nation  ?  Who  are  they  that 
minister  at  the  altar  with  the  greatest  effect;  on  whom  the 
church  relies  most  for  edification  and  comfort — for  spiritual 
growth  and  spiritual  victories  ?  Who  are  they  that  oppose 
the  most  effectual  resistance  to  physical  maladies;  or  that 
plead  with  best  success  the  cause  of  the  orphan  and  the 
widow ;  or  that  act  with  greatest  efficiency  in  aiding  the 
cause  of  human  philanthropy, — in  drying  away  the  fountains  of 
human  wo  ?  In  short,  who  are  they  on  whom  we  rely  most 


19(5  THE   MERIDIAN  OF    LIFE. 

for  making  the  world  wiser  and  better;  for  performing  that 
intelligent,  active,  merciful  ministration,  in  which  God  himself 
shall  co-operate  for  restoring  our  world  to  something  like  its 
primeval  dignity  and  bliss  ?  Surely,  every  one  must  answer* 
that  the  men  who  are  accomplishing  these  great  ends  are 
chiefly  they  who  have  reached  their  maturity,  but  whose 
faculties  have  not  begun  to  wane ;  in  other  words,  men  who 
are  in  the  full  vigour  and  strength  of  manhood.  They  may, 
indeed,  have  their  efficient  auxiliaries  from  the  ranks  of  youth 
or  the  ranks  of  age ;  but  the  moving  power  rests  with  them ; 
in  them  emphatically  are  bound  up  the  elements  of  the  weal  or 
the  wo  of  the  next  generation. 

But  middle  life  sustains  a  deeply  interesting  relation  to  the 
period  that  follows,  as  well  as  to  the  period  that  precedes  it. 
It  often  happens  indeed  that  it  is,  itself,  the  closing  stage  of  life ; 
though  there  are  many  instances  in  which  it  is  otherwise, — in 
which  it  is  followed  even  by  a  protracted  old  age.  But  when 
this  latter  period  comes  there  is  usually  more  or  less  of  physi 
cal  infirmity  attending  it ;  there  are  cheerless  and  cloudy  days, 
in  which  the  faculties  sometimes  covet  a  repose  which  they 
cannot  find ;  the  very  grasshopper  becomes  a  burden ;  and 
everything  marks  the  frame,  the  intellect,  the  whole  man,  as 
having  reached  the  period  of  endurance  rather  than  of  action. 
But  supposing  the  energies  of  manhood  to  have  been  consecra 
ted  to  the  interests  of  virtue,  to  the  promotion  of  human  hap 
piness,  manhood  has  laid  up  rich  consolations  for  old  age ; — it 
has  furnished  for  it  a  treasury  of  grateful  recollections,  which 
will  enable  it  to  live  out  the  evil  days,  and  go  home  to  its  final 
resting-place  with  serenity,  and  even  joy.  Suppose  the  illus 
trious  Wilberforce  had  given  the  meridian  of  his  life,  the  days 
of  his  greatest  usefulness,  to  some  frivolous  employment,  which 
would  have  either  given  his  faculties  a  wrong  direction,  or  left 


THE    MERIDIAN    OF    LIFE.  197 

them  to  rust  in  indolent  inaction  ;  and  suppose  the  world  had 
not  been  the  better  for  his  having  lived  in  it  during  that  period, 
what  a  different  complexion  would  this  circumstance  have 
imparted  to  his  last  days  and  hours :  he  might  indeed  have 
fastened  his  eye  in  penitence  upon  the  cross,  and  there  might 
have  found  a  refuge  for  his  troubled  spirit ;  but  there  would 
have  been  nothing  in  his  life,  at  least  in  the  best  period  of  it, 
upon  which  his  eye  could  have  reposed  with  one  grateful  emo 
tion.  As  manhood  is  the  time  when  the  spirit  is  most  vigorous, 
and  most  capable  of  heroic  and  successful  effort,  so  it  cannot 
be  but  that  the  record  of  what  it  has  been  and  what  it  has 
done,  will  be  contemplated  with  the  utmost  concern,  in  the 
vale  of  age  and  the  yet  deeper  valley  of  death. 

It  is  scarcely  necessary  to  add  that  a  virtuous  manhood 
connects  itself  most  intimately  with  the  rewards  to  be  bestowed 
in  a  better  life.  For  notwithstanding  these  rewards  are  be 
stowed  in  virtue  of  a  gracious  constitution,  yet  they  have  re 
spect  to  the  amount  of  suffering  endured,  of  service  performed, 
in  the  cause  of  God  and  of  his  creatures.  And  if  manhood 
makes  the  largest  contributions  to  the  welfare  of  the  race,  then 
surely  its  efforts  will  be  crowned  with  a  proportionably  glo 
rious  reward.  Ye,  who  are  spending  to  little  or  no  purpose 
these  golden  years  of  your  existence,  remember  that  this  will 
tell  fearfully  on  your  eternal  condition.  Ye,  who  are  spending 
them  in  making  noble  acquisitions  of  truth  and  goodness,  in 
going  up  and  down  the  world  on  errands  of  good-will,  in  using 
your  various  faculties  for  the  very  purpose  for  which  they  were 
given — "  I  say  unto  you,  be  of  good  cheer,  for  great  is  your 
reward  in  Heaven."  Your  faculties  shall  hereafter  brighten 
into  the  vigour  of  a  more  glorious  manhood,  while  you  connect 
the  future  with  the  present  in  ascriptions  of  boundless  praise. 

17* 


THE   ANCIENT    MAIDEN, 

I. 

HER  silvery  hair 

Is  braided  with  care, 
As  early  her  grandmother  taught  her ; 

And  gentleness  lies 

Enshrined  in  her  eyes, 
Like  moonlight  in  tranquilest  water. 

II. 

Each  year  that  has  past 

Its  shadow  has  cast, 
To  deepen  her  lovely  expression ; 

The  lines  that  awhile 

Were  seen  in  a  smile, 
Now  fixed,  are  in  quiet  possession. 

III. 

To  one  whom  the  tomb 

Enclosed  in  his  bloom, 

Her  early  affections  were  given ; 


THE   ANCIENT   MAIDEN.  \<j(j 

She  knelt  by  his  side, 
As  calmly  he  died, 
In  blessed  assurance  of  Heaven. 


IV. 

Repiriings  were  hushed ; 

The  casket  was  crushed, — 
The  humble  its  treasures  are  wearing ; 

The  poor  and  reviled, 

The  mourner  and  child, 
The  love  she  had  garnered  are  sharing. 


V. 


She  cheerfully  bears 

Her  burden  of  cares, 
And  smiles  in  her  desolate  dwelling ; 

Nor  minds  that  her  name 

Continues  the  same 
As  when  she  was  tutored  in  spelling. 

VI. 

The  children  rejoice 

To  hear  her  sweet  voice, 
And  cease  from  their  noisy  commotion, 

While  lisping  their  notes 

From  innocent  throats, 
They  join  in  her  evening  devotion. 


THE   ANCIENT   MAIDEN. 

VII. 

The  love  of  the  Lord, 

That  heavenly  chord, 
In  childhood  with  music  was  laden ; 

Adversity's  stroke 

Its  melody  woke, 
To  cheer  the  decline  of  the  maiden. 

ARIA. 


THE   MOTHER'S   GRAVE. 


BY  MRS.  E.  F.  ELLETT. 


From  the  French  of  Lamartine. 


I. 

O'ERWORN  with  watching,  wo,  and  hopeless  care, 
A  wrestler  foiled  that  yields  to  dull  despair. 

"  Injyain,"  I  cried,  "  is  morning's  smile  so  bright. 
Nature  with  beauty  cheats  our  wondering  eyes, 
And  Heaven,  arrayed  in  gold  and  vermeil  dyes, 

But  mocks  our  misery  with  its  pageant  light. 

II. 

"  'Tis  all  illusion — all  a  passing  dream  ! 
A  vision,  born  of  Hope's  deceitful  gleam  ; 

Man's  sole  reality  his  cureless  wo ! 
This  spark  of  life  that  shoots  athwart  our  gloom, 
For  one  brief  instant  doth  the  soul  illume, 

And  straight  is  gone,  in  other  breasts  to  glow. 


202  THE   MOTHER'S   GRAVE. 

III. 

"  The  more  we  look,  the  gloom  is  more  profound. 
God,  'tis  a  phantasy — an  empty  sound — 

A  dark  abyss — where  thought  no  shore  can  find  ! 
And  all  that  moves  or  sparkles  in  the  ray, 
Are  like  the  light  clouds  on  the  dusty  way, 

Which  the  unconscious  traveller  leaves  behind." 

IV. 

I  said — and  turned  with  envy  to  behold 
Those  forms  which  but  a  mindless  life  unfold, 

Whose  sleep  at  least  no  torturing  vision  knows ; 
On  wood  and  rock  my  passing  glance  was  thrown, 
And  thus  it  said  to  brute,  and  stock,  and  stone — 

"  Hail !  brethren  !  I  shall  share  your  dull  repose  !" 

V. 

My  glance,  far  wandering,  with  the  seaman's  strain, 
That  seeks  his  course  across  the  trackless  main, 

Sudden  was  stayed  upon  a  lowly  bed ; 
A  tomb — sad  prison  of  a  cherished  trust — 
Where  the  green  turf,  that  hides  my  mother's  dust, 

Grew,  'neath  the  tears  a  mourning  hamlet  shed. 

VI. 

There,  when  that  angel,  veiled  in  woman's  frame, 
In  God  exhaled  her  spirit's  holy  flame 

As  sinks  the  dying  lamp  when  morn  is  near, 


THE    MOTHER'S    GRAVE. 


203 


Beside  the  altar's  shade  she  loved  so  well, 
My  hands  prepared  her  cold  and  narrow  cell, 
To  her  the  portal  of  a  happier  sphere  ! 

VII. 

There  sleeps  in  hope,  she,  whose  expiring  eyes 
Smiled  on  my  own,  till  death  had  stilled  her  sighs, 

And  chilled  that  heart,  of  love  the  large  abode ; 
That  breast  which  nourished  me  with  tenderest  care, 
Those  arms  that  did  my  wayward  childhood  bear, 

Those  lips  from  which  my  all  of  blessing  flowed ! 

VIII. 

There  sleep  her  SIXTY  YEARS  of  one  sole  thought ; 
A  life  with  charity  and  goodness  fraught, 

Hope,  innocence,  and  love  devoid  of  strife ; 
So  many  prayers  in  secret  sent  on  high, 
Such  faith  in  death — such  deeds  that  should  not  die — 

Such  virtues  pledged  for  an  immortal  life ! 

IX. 

So  many  nights  in  kindly  vigils  spent; 
So  many  alms  to  want  and  suffering  lent ; 

So  many  tears  poured  forth  for  others'  wo ; 
So  many  sighs  breathed  towards  a  better  land — 
Such  gentle  patience  'neath  the  Chastener's  hand — 

Bearing  a  life  whose  crown  is  not  below. 

X. 

And  wherefore  ?     That  a  darksome  pit  might  hide 
The  being  for  a  mortal  sphere  too  wide  ? 
That  richer  foliage  this  base  sod  might  kiss  ? 


204  THE   MOTHER'S    GRAVE. 

That  these  death-weeds  which  o'er  her  relics  wave, 
Might  grow  more  greenly  on  the  humble  grave  ? — 
A  little  ashes  had  sufficed  for  this ! 

XL 

No,  no !  to  deck  three  paces  of  the  earth, 
The  Maker  gave  not  that  vast  spirit  birth; 

That  soul  sublime  died  not  with  failing  breath ! 
In  vain  I  linger  by  this  mound  of  gloom ; 
O  Virtue  !  thou  art  stronger  than  the  tomb  ; 

Thy  aspect  banishes  the  dusk  of  death ! 

XII. 

Oppressed  no  more — no  more  to  fears  a  prey, 
Mine  eyes  awaited  thence  a  heavenly  day ; 

Faith,  to  my  darkened  heart,  new  sunlight  gave. 
Happy  whom  God  has  given  a  friend  so  rare ! 
Though  life  be  hard,  and  Death  his  terrors  wear, — 

WHO WHO  CAN  DOUBT  UPON  A  MOTHER'S  GRAVE  ? 


A  STRONG  MAN  NEVER  CHANGES  HIS  MENTAL 
CHARACTERISTICS, 

OR,  A  CONTRAST  BETWEEN  THE  APOSTLES  PAUL  AND  JOHN. 
BY  J.  X.  HEADLEY. 

THERE  is  no  error  more  common  than  to  erect  a  single 
standard  by  which  to  judge  every  man.  Temperament  and 
mental  peculiarities  do  not  change  with  the  moral  character. 
The  man  of  fierce  and  ardent  nature,  who  loves  excitement 
and  danger,  and  enjoys  the  stern  struggle  and  field  of  great 
risks,  does  not  become  a  lamb  because  his  moral  nature  is 
renovated.  His  best  energies  will  pant  for  action  as  much 
as  ever,  but  seek  different  objects  and  aim  at  nobler  results. 
Half  the  prejudice  and  bigotry  among  us  grows  out  of  the 
inability,  or  unwillingness,  to  allow  for  the  peculiar  tempera 
ment  or  disposition  of  others.  The  world  is  made  up  of  many 
varieties,  and  our  Saviour  seems  to  have  had  this  fact  in 
view  when  he  chose  his  Apostles.  As  far  as  we  know  their 
characters,  they  were  widely  different,  and  stand  as  represen 
tatives  of  distinct  classes  of  men.  The  object  of  this  doubt 
less  was  to  teach  us  charity.  Take  three  of  them,  Peter, 
John,  and  Paul,  (the  latter  afterwards  chosen,  but  by  divine 

18 


206  THE   APOSTLES   PAUL   AND   JOHN. 

direction,)  and  more  distinct,  unlike  men  cannot  be  found. 
Peter,  like  all  Galileans,  who  resembled  very  much  the  Jewish 
nation  in  character,  was  rash,  headlong,  and  sudden  in  his 
impulses.  Such  a  man  acts  without  forethought.  When 
Christ  appeared  on  the  shore  of  the  lake,  Peter  immediately 
jumped  overboard  and  swam  to  him.  On  the  night  of  the 
betrayal,  when  the  furious  rabble  pressed  around  his  Master, 
he  never  counted  heads,  but  drew  his  sword  and  laid  about 
him,  cutting  off  an  ear  of  the  High  Priest's  servant.  Such  a 
man  loves  to  wear  a  sword ;  we  venture  to  say  he  was  the 
only  Apostle  who  did.  When  Christ  said,  "  All  of  you  shall 
be  offended  because  of  me  this  night,"  Peter  was  the  first  to 
speak,  declaring  confidently  that,  though  all  the  others  might 
fail,  yet  he  would  not.  Said  he,  "  Though  I  should  die  with 
thee,  yet  will  I  not  deny  thee"  A  few  hours  after,  under  an 
equally  sudden  impulse,  he  not  only  denied  him,  but  swore  to 
the  lie  he  uttered.  Paul  could  not  have  done  this,  without 
becoming  an  apostate.  He  acted  deliberately,  and  with  fore 
thought  and  decision.  Peter's  repentance  was  as  sudden  as 
his  fault — one  reproachful,  mournful  look,  scattered  the  fear, 
which  had  mastered  his  integrity,  to  the  wind,  and  he  went 
out  and  wept  bitterly. 

But  the  contrast  we  love  to  contemplate  most  of  all,  is  that 
exhibited  by  John  and  Paul.  In  the  former,  sentiment  and 
sympathy  predominated  over  the  intellectual  powers,  while  the 
latter  was  all  intellect  and  force.  The  former  was  a  poet  by 
nature — kind,  generous,  and  full  of  emotion.  He  loved  to  rest 
in  the  Saviour's  bosom  and  look  up  into  his  face.  His  was 
one  of  those  natures  which  shun  the  storm  and  tumult  of  life, 
and  are  happy  only  when  surrounded  with  those  they  love. 
Perfectly  absorbed  in  affection  for  Christ,  he  had  no  other 


THE   APOSTLES    PAUL   AND   JOHN.  207 

wish  but  to  be  near  him — no  other  joy  but  to  drink  in  his 
instructions,  and  receive  his  caress.  Even  if  he  had  not  been 
a  Christian,  he  would  have  possessed  a  soul  of  the  highest 
honour,  incapable  of  deceit  and  meanness.  He  betray,  or 
deny  his  master  !  Every  faculty  he  possessed,  revolted  at  the 
thought. 

No  threats  or  torture  can  unwind  a  mother's  arms  from  her 
child.  If  torn  from  it,  she  goes  through  danger  from  which 
the  boldest  shrink  to  embrace  it  again.  So  when  the  Roman 
soldiery  and  the  clamorous  rabble  closed  darkly  around  the 
Saviour,  Mary  was  nearer  the  cross  than  they  all,  and  heeded 
not  their  scoffs,  feared  not  their  violence.  There  too  stood 
John  by  her  side,  rivalling  even  the  mother  in  love.  He  for 
got  he  had  a  life  to  lose — he  did  not  even  hear  the  taunts  that 
were  rained  upon  him,  nor  see  the  fingers  of  scorn  that  pointed 
at  his  tears.  Christ,  in  the  midst  of  his  sufferings,  was  struck 
with  this  matchless  love,  and  bade  him  take  his  place  as  a  son 
to  his  afflicted  mother. 

Throughout  his  life,  he  exhibits  this  warm  and  generous  na 
ture;  his  epistles  are  the  outpourings  of  affection, — and  love, 
love  is  his  theme  from  first  to  last.  Place  him  in  what  relations 
you  will,  and  he  displays  the  same  lovely  character.  When 
banished  to  Patmos,  he  trod  the  solitary  beach,  lulled  by  the 
monotonous  dash  of  waves  at  his  feet,  he  was  placed  in  a 
situation  to  develope  all  the  sternness  and  energy  he  possessed, 
yet  he  is  the  same  submissive,  trusting  spirit  as  ever.  When 
addressed  by  the  voice  from  heaven,  he  fell  on  his  face  as  a 
dead  man;  and  when  the  heavens  were  opened  on  his  wonder 
ing  vision,  and  the  mysteries  and  glories  of  the  inner  sanc 
tuary  were  revealed  to  his  view,  he  stood  and  wept  at  the 
sight.  In  strains  of  sublime  poetry,  he  pours  forth  his  rapt 


208      THE  APOSTLES  PAUL  AND  JOHN. 

soul,  which,  dazzled  by  the  effulgence  around  it,  seems  almost 
bewildered  and  lost. 

And  when  the  lamp  of  life  burned  dimly,  and  his  tremulous 
voice  could  hardly  articulate,  he  still  spoke  of  love.  It  is  said 
he  lived  to  be  eighty  years  of  age,  and  then,  too  feeble  to 
walk,  was  carried  into  the  church  on  men's  shoulders,  and, 
though  scarce  able  to  speak,  would  faintly  murmur :  "  Breth 
ren,  love  one  another."  Affection  was  his  life,  and  it  seemed 
to  him  that  the  world  could  be  governed  by  love. 

But  while  he  was  thus  breathing  forth  his  affectionate  words, 
Paul  was  shaking  Europe  like  a  storm.  Possessing  the  heart 
of  a  lion,  he  too  could  love,  but  with  a  sternness  that  made  a 
timorous  nature  almost  shrink  from  his  presence.  Born  on 
the  shores  of  the  Mediterranean,  with  the  ever-heaving  sea 
before  him,  and  an  impenetrable  barrier  of  mountains  behind 
him,  his  mind  early  received  its  tendencies,  and  took  its  lofty 
bearing. 

In  Jerusalem,  he  had  scarcely  completed  his  studies,  before 
he  plunged  into  the  most  exciting  scenes  of  those  times.  The 
new  religion,  professing  to  have  the  long-promised  Messiah 
for  its  founder,  agitated  the  entire  nation.  To  the  proud, 
young  scholar,  those  ignorant  fishermen,  disputing  with  the 
doctors  of  the  law,  and  claiming  for  their  religion  a  supe 
riority  over  his  own,  which  had  been  transmitted  through  a 
thousand  generations,  arid  been  sanctioned  by  a  thousand 
miracles  and  wonders,  were  objects  of  the  deepest  scorn. 
Filled  with  indignation,  and  panting  for  action,  he  threw  him 
self  boldly  into  the  struggle,  and  became  foremost  in  the  per 
secution  that  followed.  Arrested  by  no  obstacles,  softened  by 
no  suffering,  he  roamed  the  streets  of  Jerusalem  like  a  fiend, 
breaking  even  into  the  retirement  of  the  Christian's  home, 


THE   APOSTLES    PAUL   AND   JOHN.  209 

dragging  thence  women  and  children,  and  casting  them  into 
prison.  One  of  those  determined  men,  who,  once  having 
made  up  their  minds  to  a  thing,  can  be  turned  aside  by  no 
danger,  not  even  by  death,  he  entered  soul  and  heart  into  the 
work  of  extermination. 

Inflexible,  superior  to  all  the  claims  of  sympathy,  and  mas 
ter  even  of  his  own  emotions,  he,  in  his  intellectual  develop 
ments,  wasjnore  like  Bonaparte  than  any  other  man  in  history. 
He  had  the  same  immovable  will — the  same  utter  indifference 
to  human  suffering,  after  he  had  once  determined  on  his  course 
— the  same  tireless,  unconquerable  energy — the  same  fearless 
ness  both  of  man's  power  and  opinions — the  same  self-reliance 
and  control  over  others.  But  especially  were  they  alike  in 
the  union  of  a  strong  and  correct  judgment,  with  sudden  im 
pulse  and  rapidity  of  thought,  and,  more  than  all,  in  their 
great  practical  power.  There  are  many  men  of  strong  minds 
whose  force  nevertheless  wastes  itself  in  reflection  or  in  theo 
ries.  Thought  may  work  out  into  language,  but  not  in  action. 
They  will  plan,  but  they  cannot  perform.  But  Paul  not  only 
thought  better  than  all  other  men,  but  he  could  work  better. 

As,  in  imagination,  I  behold  him  in  that  long  journey  to 
Damascus,  whither  his  rage  was  carrying  him,  I  often  wonder 
whether,  at  night,  when,  exhausted  and  weary,  he  pitched  his 
tent  amid  the  quietness  of  nature,  he  did  not  feel  doubts  and 
misgivings  creep  over  his  heart,  and  if  that  stern  soul  did  not 
relent.  As  the  sun  stooped  to  his  glorious  rest  in  the  heavens, 
and  the  evening  breeze  stole  softly  by,  and  perchance  the  note 
of  the  bulbul  filled  the  moonlight  writh  melody,  it  must  have 
required  nerves  of  iron  to  resist  the  soothing  influences  around 
him.  Yet,  young  as  he  was,  and  thus  open  to  the  beauties  of 
nature,  he  seemed  to  show  no  misgivings. 

18* 


210      THE  APOSTLES  PAUL  AND  JOHN. 

But  the  wonderful  strength  of  his  character  is  exhibited  no 
where  more  strikingly,  than  when  smitten  to  the  earth  and 
blinded  by  the  light  and  voice  from  Heaven.  When  the  trum 
pet  arrested  the  footsteps  of  John,  on  the  isle  of  Patmos,  he 
fell  on  his  face  as  a  dead  man,  and  dared  not  stir  or  speak  till 
encouraged  by  the  voice  from  on  high,  saying,  "  Fear  not  /" 
But  Paul, — or  Saul,  as  he  was  then  called, — though  a  perse 
cutor  and  sinner,  showed  no  symptoms  of  alarm  or  terror.  His 
powerful  mind  at  once  perceived  the  object  of  this  strange 
display  of  Divine  power,  arid  took  at  once  its  decision.  He 
did  not  give  way  to  exclamations  of  terror,  or  prayers  for 
safety,  but,  master  of  himself  and  his  faculties,  said,  "  Lard, 
what  wilt  thou  have  me  to  do  ?"  Something  was  to  be  done,  he 
well  knew  ;  this  sudden  vision  and  voice  were  not  sent  to  ter 
rify,  but  to  convince,  and  ever  ready  to  act,  he  asked  what  he 
should  do. 

The  persecutor  became  the  persecuted,  and  the  proud  student, 
the  humble,  despised  disciple  of  Jesus  of  Nazareth,  and  leaving 
the  halls  of  learning,  and  companionship  of  dignitaries,  he  cast 
his  lot  in  with  the  fishermen. 

This  was  a  great  change,  and  religion  effected  it  all,  yet  it 
could  not  alter  his  mental  characteristics.  He  was  just  as 
determined,  and  resolute,  and  fearless,  as  ever. 

He  entered  Jerusalem  and  made  the  Sanhedrim  shake  with 
his  eloquence.  Cast  out  of  the  city,  he  started  for  his  native 
city— for  the  home  of  his  boyhood— his  father's  house— his 
kindred  and  friends.  Thence  to  Antioch  and  Cyprus,  along  the 
coast  of  Syria  to  Greece  and  Rome, — over  the  known  world  he 
went  like  a  blazing  comet,  waking  up  the  nations  of  the  earth. 

John  in  giving  an  account  of  the  revelations  made  to  him, 
declares  that  he  wept  at  the  sight.  Paul,  in  his  calm,  self-col- 


THE   APOSTLES   PAUL   AND   JOHN.  211 

lected  manner,  when  speaking  of  the  heavens  opened  to  his 
view,  says  simply,  that  he  saw  things  which  were  not  lawful 
for  man  to  utter.  From  the  top  of  Mars  Hill,  with  the  gor 
geous  city  at  his  feet,  and  the  Acropolis  and  Parthenon  behind 
him, — on  the  deck  of  his  shattered  vessel,  and  in  the  gloomy 
walls  of  a  prison — he  speaks  in  the  same  calm,  determined  tone. 
Deterred  by  no  danger — awed  by  no  presence,  and  shrinking 
from  no  contest,  he  moves  before  us  like  some  grand  embodi 
ment  of  power. 

His  natural  fierceness  often  breaks  forth  in  spite  of  his  good 
ness.  He  quarrelled  with  Peter,  and  afterwards  with  Barna 
bas,  because  he  insisted  that  Mark  should  accompany  them  in 
their  visit  to  the  churches.  But  on  a  former  occasion  Mark 
had  deserted  him,  and  he  would  not  have  him  along  again. 
Stern  and  decided  himself,  he  wished  no  one  with  him  who 
would  blench  when  the  storm  blew  loudest,  and  so  he  and  Bar 
nabas  separated.  Paul  had  rather  go  alone  than  have  ten 
thousand  by  his  side  if  they  possessed  fearful  hearts. 

So  when  the  High  Priest  ordered  him  to  be  smitten,  he 
turned  like  a  lion  upon  him  and  thundered  in  his  astonished 
ear,  "  God  shall  smite,  thee,  thou  whited  wall!" 

He  would  not  submit  to  wrong  unless  made  legal  by  the 
civil  power,  and  then,  he  would  die  without  a  murmur.  When 
his  enemies  who  had  imprisoned  him  illegally  found  he  was  a 
Roman  citizen,  they  in  alarm  sent  word  to  the  jailor  to  release 
him.  But  Paul  would  not  stir ;  "  They  have  seized  me  wrong 
fully,"  said  he,  "  and  now  let  them  come  themselves  and  take 
me  out  publicly."  He  was  stern  but  not  proud,  for  he  said, 
"  I  am  the  least  of  the  saints,  not  fit  to  be  called  an  Apostle." 
Bold,  but  never  uncourteous — untiring,  undismayed,  and  never 
cast  down — love  to  God  and  man  controlled  all  his  acts.  A 


212  THE   APOSTLES    PAUL   AND   JOHN. 

truer  heart  never  beat  in  a  human  bosom.  What  to  him  was 
wealth !  What  the  smiles  or  frowns  of  the  great,  and  the  triumph 
of  factions !  With  a  nobler  aim,  enthusiastic  in  a  worthier 
cause,  sustained  by  a  stronger  soul,  he  exclaimed,  "  I  glory  in 
the  cross"  The  sneering  world  shouted  in  scorn,  "  The  cross, 
the  cross !"  to  signify  the  ignominious  death  of  his  Master. 
"  Tlie  cross,  the  cross  /"  he  echoed  back,  "  in  tones  of  increased 
volume  and  power,  till  the  ends  of  the  earth  caught  the  joyful 
sound."  The  united  world  could  not  bring  a  blush  to  his  cheek 
or  timidity  to  his  eye.  He  could  stand  alone  amid  an  apos 
tate  race  and  defy  the  fury  of  kings  and  princes.  Calm,  dig 
nified  and  resolved,  he  took  the  path  of  duty,  with  an  unfaltering 
step.  No  malice  of  his  foes  could  deter  him  from  labouring 
for  their  welfare — no  insult  prevent  his  prayer  in  their  behalf — 
no  wrongs  heaped  on  his  innocent  head,  keep  back  his  forgive 
ness. 

One  cannot  point  to  a  single  spot  in  his  whole  career 
where  he  lost  his  self-possession,  or  gave  way  to  discou 
ragement  or  fear.  An  iron  man  in  his  natural  characte 
ristics,  he  was  nevertheless  humble,  meek,  kind,  and  for 
giving.  And  then  his  death, — how  indescribably  sublime! 
Bonaparte,  dying  in  the  midst  of  a  storm,  with  the  last 
words  that  escaped  his  lips  a  martial  command,  and  his 
spirit,  as  it  passed  to  its  eternal  home,  watching  in  its  deli 
rium  the  current  of  a  heavy  fight,  is  a  sight  that  awes  and 
startles  us.  But  behold  Paul, — also  a  war-worn  veteran,  bat 
tered  with  many  a  scar,  though  in  spiritual  warfare — look 
ing  back  not  with  remorse  but  joy — not  clinging  to  the 
earth,  but  anxious  to  depart.  Hear  his  calm,  serene  voice, 
ringing  above  the  storms  and  commotions  of  life :  "  /  am 
now  ready  to  be  offered,  and  the  time  of  my  departure  is  at 


THE   APOSTLES   PAUL   AND   JOHN.  213 

hand.     1  have  fought  a  good  fight,  I  have  finished  my  course, — 
there  is  laid  up  for  me  a  crown  of  righteousness  " 

Thus  passed  away  this  powerful  man.  I  have  spoken  but 
little  of  his  moral  character,  of  his  faith,  or  religious  teach 
ings,  but  confined  myself  chiefly  to  those  natural  traits  which 
belonged  to  him  as  a  man,  independent  of  that  peculiar  power 
and  grace  given  him  by  God.  Hence,  I  have  treated  him 
with  a  familiarity  which  might  seem  unwise,  had  I  spoken  of 
him  as  an  inspired  Apostle.  I  wished  to  show  how  widely 
apart  in  their  characters  men  equally  good  may  be. 


THE    CHILDLESS   WIDOW. 

I. 

OUR  pastor  left  his  cheerful  hearth, 

Where  the  fire  was  burning  bright, 
To  bid  me  bless  the  Hand  that  had 

On  mine  put  out  the  light ; 
He  told  me  it  was  wrong  to  weep, 

And  bade  me  dry  mine  eyes, 
The  smoke  yet  rising  from  the  place 

Of  my  last  sacrifice. 

II. 

A  fair  young  mother,  full  of  joy, — 

Life's  journey  just  begun, — 
Looked  in  upon  my  loneliness, 

To  say,  "  Thy  will  be  done  !" 
She  told  the  widow  of  threescore 

To  bo\v  and  kiss  the  rod, 
Which  had  beaten  her  with  many  stripes, 

Because  it  was  of  God. 


THE   CHILDLESS   WIDOW.  215 

III. 

The  rich  man  gave  me  of  his  gold, 

And  told  me  it  would  heal 
The  deepest  and  the  sorest  wound 

That  woman's  breast  could  feel ; 
Alas  !  my  bosom's  yearning  void 

No  gift  of  his  can  fill ; 
The  mother's  heart,  her  jewels  lost, 

Is  poor  and  empty  still. 

IV. 

The  young  and  hopeful  came  to  me, 

And  bade  me  cease  to  sigh ; — 
To  look  for  brighter  days  to  come, 

And  leave  the  days  gone  by. 
They  said  this  world  was  very  fair, 

And  darkest  clouds  wrere  given 
Only  to  make  more  beautiful 

The  clear  blue  of  the  heaven. 

V. 

God  help  me  in  my  wretchedness, 

Lest  sorrow  shut  my  heart 
From  all  who  have  not  yet  known  grief, 

Nor  felt  affliction's  dart ; 
But  send  not  those  who  never  lost 

A  solace  or  a  stay, 
To  tell  me,  'tis  His  right  who  gives, 

To  take  His  own  away. 


216  THE    CHILDLESS   WIDOW. 

VI. 

With  her  youngest  born  about  her  neck, 

Her  eldest  at  her  knee, 
That  happy  mother  cannot  feel 

For  a  childless  one  like  me ; 
With  her  first  young  love  to  lean  upon, 

His  true  heart  all  her  own, 
She  cannot  mourn  with  the  bereaved, 

Left  desolate,  alone ! 

VII. 

With  his  children  all  around  him, 

And  her  voice  in  his  ear, — 
Which  Time  has  only  made  more  soft, 

And  more  serenely  clear ; — 
Our  Pastor  cannot  realize 

The  widow's  lonely  lot, 
Whose  mate  is  taken  from  her  side, 

Whose  little  ones  are  not. 

VIII. 

I  would  not  have  earth's  joyful  ones 

Less  happy  or  less  glad, 
Nor  fetter  down  the  light  of  heart, 

Because  my  own  is  sad ; 
But  when  my  heavenly  Father's  face 

In  wrath  to  me  is  shown, 
With  Him,  who  knoweth  all  my  need, 

I  would  be  left  alone. 

ELIZABETH. 


THE    AGED   PENITENT. 

FOR  centuries  the  Alpine  rock  will  bear 

The  wintry  snows,  yet  fall  at  last  beneath 

A  single  flake, — so,  sixty  years  unmoved 

He  heard  the  eloquence  of  gifted  men ; 

Yet  now  the  words  a  child  had  lisped,  had  bowed 

His  spirit  to  the  dust.     She  leaned  upon 

The  Book,  which  rested  on  his  knee,  the  while 

Her  dimpled  finger  pointed  to  the  page 

Where  Jesus  on  the  Cross  was  touchingly 

Portrayed. 

"  Dear  grandpapa,  and  did  he  die 
For  us  ?"  with  earnestness  she  said,  and  gazed 
With  dewy  eyes  upon  his  troubled  face. 
He  paused  to  stay  the  tide  which  sudden  gushed 
From  out  the  hidden  fount  the  child  had  oped, 
And  then,  with  solemn  tenderness,  replied  ; — 
"  He  died  for  us,  and  may  we  live  for  Him." 
As  human  hands  may  vainly  sweep  across 

19 


218  THE   AGED  PENITENT. 

JSolian  chords,  from  which  the  zephyrs  wake 
The  sweetest  music,  Earth  had  from  his  soul 
But  discord  brought ; — the  Spirit  o'er  it  swept, 
And  melody  arose  ;  the  angels  ceased  their  songs 
To  catch  the  sound,  then  struck  their  golden  harps 
In  unison,  and  filled  the  courts  of  Heaven 
With  glad  rejoicings. 

S.  S.  T, 


HAPPINESS   IN   A   HOVEL. 


"  At  the  lower  extremity  of  a  steep  and  rugged  lane,  was  seen  an  obscure  and  melancholy 
hovel.  Within,  the  room  was  dark  and  dirty;  there  was  nothing  on  the  walls  but  the  bare 
beams,  ill  joined  to  exclude  the  weather. 

"  There  sat  a  figure,  such  as  the  pencil  well  might  choose  for  the  portrait  of  wretchedness. 
Quite  gray,  and  very  old,  and  scarcely  clothed,  a  woman  was  seen  sitting  by  the  fire-place. 
Some  remark  being  made  on  the  wretchedness  of  her  dwelling,  her  stern  features  almost  re 
laxed  into  a  smile,  and  she  said,  she  did  not  think  it  so  ;  and  wished  us  all  as  happy  as  her 
self. 

'•'  And  you  sit  here  all  day,  in  pain  and  unable  to  move  :  are  not  the  days  long?' 

"  «  How  can  they  be  long  ?  Is  not  He  with  me  ?  Is  it  not  all  up— up  T  an  expression  she 
frequently  made  use  of  to  describe  the  joyful  elevation  of  her  mind." 

CAROLINE  FRY. 


DID  visions  of  Heaven 
Gleam  in  on  thy  sight  ? 

Came  the  presence  of  angels 
In  raiments  of  white  ? 

II. 

Did  they  point  through  the  vista, 
The  clouds  and  the  gloom, 

To  a  mansion  all  holy, 

Thine  owrn  prepared  home  ? 


220  HAPPINESS   IN   A   HOVEL. 


III. 


Did  the  portals  of  Heaven — 
The  pearl-gates—unfold  ? 

Trod  thine  unfettered  spirit 
Those  streets  of  pure  gold  ? 


IV. 

Though  Earth's  cup  of  gladness 
Ne'er  sparkled  for  thee, 

Yet  a  song  of  thanksgiving 
Rose  fervent  and  free. 

V. 

No  earthly-formed  barrier 
Rose  round  thee,  to  bar 

One  ray  of  the  beauty 
Of  Bethlehem's  star. 

VI. 

Thou  dweller  so  lonely, 

Did  Heavenly  Love 
Send  a  pinion  all  holy 

Which  bore  thee  above  ? 

VII. 

The  feathers  of  silver — 

The  wings  tipped  with  gold — 
They  who  came  but  to  pity, 

Might  never  behold. 


HAPPINESS   IN    A   HOVEL.  221 

VIII. 

From  whence  came  the  "  white-robed  ?" 

They  passed  into  bliss, 
Through  dimness  and  darkness, 

And  shadows  like  this  ! 

N. 


19* 


THE   GREAT   ENIGMA. 

BY  THE  REV.  JOHN  WILLIAMS. 

I  SUPPOSE  this  name  may  not  improperly  be  applied  to  one 
of  the  mysteries  of  Life,  which  only  the  Christian  Faith  ex 
plains  :  the  existence  namely,  of  what  we  call  good  and  evil, 
so  indiscriminately  among  men,  and  so  entirely  without  any 
regard  to  the  excellence  or  worthlessness  of  their  characters. 
None  of  course  but  a  Christian  Moralist  can  venture  to  write 
at  all  upon  this  perplexing  subject.  And  even  among  them 
there  are  differences.  St.  Augustine  in  his  noble  treatise  on 
the  CITY  OF  GOD,  has  adventured  a  lofty  view  of  the  matter, 
which  furnishes  the  groundwork  of  the  following  lines.  Indeed 
they  are  little  more  than  a  paraphrase  of  his  deep  and  search 
ing  words. 

I. 

"  He  maketh  His  sun  to  rise  on  the  evil,  and  on  the  good:  and  sendeth  rain  on  the  just,  and 
on  the  unjust." 

I. 

Why  fails  thy  heart,  as  though  the  Lord  did  fail, 
Since  good  and  ill  live  mingled  here  below  ? 

Nor  sin  does  always  earthly  wo  entail, 
Nor  to  the  good,  does  joy  unceasing  flow. 


THE   GREAT   ENIGMA.  223 


Measure  not  GOD  in  such  unreal  wise, 

Nor  mete  thyself  by  things  which  fade  and  die ; 

Evil  and  good  oft  wear  each  other's  guise, 

Yet  ne'er  can  cheat  faith's  trained  and  searching  eye. 

in. 

In  weal,  the  good  are  not  lift  up  to  pride, 
Nor  to  the  dust  can  wo  their  spirits  bring ; 

While  to  the  evil,  let  what  may  betide, 

From  weal  or  wo,  due  punishment  shall  spring. 

IV. 

And  well  that  all  these  issues  are  not  here 
Made  clear  and  palpable  to  mortal  sense ; 

If  all  were  punished,  where  were  judgment's  fear  ? 
If  none,  where  then  were  faith  in  Providence  ? 


And  if  no  earthly  good  to  prayer  were  given, 
Who  but  would  cry  God  had  it  not  to  give  1 

Were  none  withheld,  with  eyes  turned  back  from  heaven, 
Grasping  and  greedy  earthlings  we  should  live. 

VI. 

Not  here  the  difference  lies.     All  have  their  cross ; 

The  suffering  one,  and  yet  the  sufferers,  twain ; 
One  fire  makes  pure  the  gold,  and  melts  the  dross, 

One  wind  blows  off  the  chaff,  and  clears  the  grain. 


224  THE   GREAT   ENIGMA. 

VII. 

Then  wonder  not  that  GOD  to  all  has  given 
Earth's  goods  and  ills  alike :  but  ponder  well, 

How  the  same  lot  that  trains  the  Saint  for  heaven, 
Can  make  the  sinner  but  more  meet  for  hell. 

II. 

"Great  are  the  troubles  of  the  righteous." 


Yet  are  the  righteous  troubled !     So  GOD'S  law 
Doth  order,  for  that  no  man  sinneth  not ; 

And  sin  must  e'er  in  train  some  evil  draw ; 
Lest  man  grow  bold,  and  judgment  be  forgot. 

ii. 

Nor  lives  the  soul  that  loves  not  life  too  well, 
Too  closely  clinging  to  the  loved  on  earth : 

Nor  less  than  suffering  can  undo  the  spell, 
Whose  magic  e'en  outlasts  the  second  birth. 

in. 

And  who  lest  foes  his  peace  should  rudely  break, 
But  sometimes  unrebuked  leaves  sin  to  reign  ? 

And  shall  not  GOD  the  slumberer's  heart  awake, 
By  stern  but  wholesome  ministries  of  pain  ? 

IV. 

Or  how  can  he  be  proved  and  tried  in  love, 
Who  has  not  trod  the  way  of  Christ  his  king  ? 


THE   GREAT  ENIGMA.  335 

How  fare  in  pilgrim-weeds  to  homes  above, 
Save  by  the  lowly  paths  of  suffering  ? 


v. 


Then,  Christian !  think  not  here  at  ease  to  dwell ; 

Dream  not  of  joy  unheralded  by  wo ; 
But  know  that  GOD  shall  full  deliverance  give, 

Though  seven  times  heated  shall  the  furnace  glow ! 


RETROSPECTION. 


BY  0.  E.  D. 


IT  is  the  prerogative  and  business  of  mankind,  as  compared 
with  beings  of  a  lower  order,  to  regard  the  past  and  the  future 
as  well  as  the  present.  The  strength  and  controlling  influence 
of  this  habit,  make  a  part  of  the  distinction  of  all  cultivated 
and  thoughtful  minds,  but  it  enters  more  or  less  into  every 
man's  common  life.  We  were  not  made  to  live  in  the  present 
only.  We  have  instincts  that  look  before  and  behind.  As 
our  senses  take  in  what  is  now  about  us,  and  consciousness 
relates  to  what  is  now  within  us,  so  memory  turns  to  what 
has  been,  and  hope  to  what  shall  be,  whether  without  or 
within.  We  attempt  to  create  the  future  and  to  renew  the  past, 
never  wholly  content  with  the  present,  except  as  the  transition 
from  the  one  to  the  other.  This  we  do  apart  from  any  calcu 
lation  of  necessity  or  advantage,  according  to  laws  of  our 
being,  from  which  we  cannot  quite  escape  if  we  would.  The 
faculties  of  the  mind,  like  bodily  senses  and  limbs,  will  not  lie 
inactive  while  there  is  life.  They  are  not  powers  merely,  but 
propensities  or  impulses,  which  must  in  some  measure  do  their 
appropriate  work. 


RETROSPECTION.  227 

If  we  think  of  human  life,  or  the  successive  circumstances 
of  our  being,  that  occupation  of  our  thoughts,  which  we 
call  Retrospection,  is  seen  to  be  unavoidable.  As  we  live 
on  from  year  to  year,  the  materials  on  which  memory  is 
to  act  are  accumulating.  According  to  the  trite  saying,  we 
are  ever  changing  with  a  changing  wrorld.  Things  grow  and 
decay,  events  come  and  go,  about  us.  We  ourselves  keep 
moving  through  the  scenery  of  life.  New  prospects  open,  old 
prospects  become  present  sights,  scarcely  recognised  as  the 
same,  and  then  are  seen  with  new  differences  in  the  distance 
behind  us.  The  lights  and  shades  shift  around  us  "  from 
morn  till  noon — from  noon  to  dewy  eve."  Our  own  vision 
changes  not  less  than  its  objects.  Thus  our  station  comes 
to  be  no  longer  where  it  once  was,  at  the  outset  of  our  inter 
minable  path,  but  somewhere  in  the  broad  field  of  time,  where 
our  view  is  divided  between  the  region  we  have  travelled  over 
and  that  which  lies  indefinable  and  obscure  before  us. 

In  such  a  condition,  memory  will  do  its  work,  taking  hold 
of  its  objects  as  time  multiplies  their  number  and  bearings. 
There  may  be  enough  to  call  forth  its  utmost,  intensest  activity. 
There  are  those  whose  lives,  even  before  middle  age,  seem  to 
have  anticipated  more  than  the  common  vicissitudes  of  the 
world,  and  such  persons  easily  lose  sight  of  the  present,  and 
scarcely  care  for  the  future,  in  the  absorbing  contemplation  of 
the  past.  But  only  to  live  on,  from  one  stage  to  another,  to 
become  a  common  man  with  the  common  experience  of  youth 
and  childhood,  is  enough  to  feed  remembrance.  We  have  all 
been  sowing  seeds,  whether  of  joy  or  grief,  or  of  both,  which 
now  in  this  way  if  in  no  other,  we  are  reaping.  The  past 
is  something  which  the  mind  keeps  hold  of,  and  will  not 
let  go.  We  have  not  the  prerogative  of  utter  forgetfulness 


228  RETROSPECTION. 

even  if  it  should  seem  desirable.  The  places  that  have  known 
us  may  know  us  no  more,  yet,  whether  they  were  gardens  and 
vineyards,  or  wildernesses  and  wastes,  while  we  live,  our 
thoughts  will  return  to  them,  and  so  we  must  visit  them  again. 
In  this  sense,  as  well  as  another,  "  it  is  not  all  of  life  to  live." 

Something  of  melancholy  regret  is  commonly  inseparable 
from  the  review  of  life.  Here,  as  in  numberless  instances, 
mankind  hardly  appreciate  the  difference  nor  yet  the  resem 
blance  among  themselves.  Since  one  sets  out  in  life  on  the 
summit-level  of  all  external  advantages,  another  at  the  lowest 
point,  and  either  may  "  hold  his  own,"  or  take  the  other's 
place ;  while  some,  perhaps  the  most  favoured  of  all,  may 
keep  the  middle  course,  in  which  it  was  their  lot  to  set  out ; 
how  various  the  materials  in  store  for  their  several  reviews ! 
From  time  to  time,  all  are  looking  back,  exulting  in  their  gain, 
or  sighing  over  their  loss.  Yet  a  melancholy  shade  steals 
over  their  brightest  review,  as  we  fain  believe  also  that  the 
darkest  is  not  without  some  relief.  He  whose  origin  is  hardly 
discoverable,  except  by  himself,  is  pleased  to  remember  the 
obscurity,  ignorance,  poverty,  and  various  adversity,  from 
which  he  has  steadily  risen  to  the  high  places  of  society;  but 
notwithstanding  all  that  is  gained,  is  nothing  lost  ?  He  cannot 
fathom  the  sorrow  of  such  as  have  felt  storm  after  storm  burst 
over  their  heads,  and  are  left  to  mourn  for  the  rich  treasures 
that  were  once  the  freight  of  their  life ;  and  still  less  the  grief 
and  shame  of  those  who  have  fallen  into  the  depths  of  crime, 
as  well  as  of  improvidence.  Yet,  amidst  all  his  prosperity, 
he  recalls  enjoyments  past  and  advantages  forfeited,  for  which 
he  seems  to  find  no  equivalent.  If  we  say  that  we  are  hap 
pier  now  than  at  any  former  period,  still  we  must  allow  that 
we  then  had  advantages  and  enjoyments  which  might  further 


RETROSPECTION.  229 

enrich  our  present  store.  We  see  plainly  why  it  is  that  recol 
lection  becomes  intensely  painful  to  those  whose  course  is 
clouded  by  crime  or  only  by  misfortune ;  but  why  is  it  that 
there  is  at  least  an  element  of  melancholy  in  every  man's  re 
membrance  of  the  past  ? 

This  fact  of  itself  casts  a  shade  over  the  review  of  life — 
that  there  is  for  us  a  Past;  that  the  track  of  years  should  have 
been  thus  far  travelled  over,  instead  of  lying  still  before  us ; 
that  this  measure  of  a  life,  not  too  long  at  best,  is  already 
quite  spent ;  that  if  it  could  all  be  lived  again,  it  would  be  so 
much  added  to  what  yet  remains.  Then  there  is  the  more 
affecting  consideration,  that  the  materials  or  subjects  of  such 
recollections  belong  mainly  to  early  years.  The  time  remem 
bered,  had  the  freshness  of  our  spring-time,  the  dew  of  our 
morning.  All  that  makes  childhood  happy  and  lovely,  the 
simplicity  of  heart  and  buoyancy  of  spirit,  the  unworn  sensi 
bilities  that  render  the  mere  sense  of  existence  pleasurable, 
unconscious  health,  freedom  from  care,  implicit  reliance  on 
parental  providence,  unsuspecting  union  of  heart  with  heart 
under  the  shelter  of  home ;  all  these  things  we  remember,  and 
for  these  the  world  can  afterwards  afford  no  substitute  that 
shall  make  us  forget  them.  In  a  moment,  our  thoughts  fly 
back  to  the  place  we  first  called  home ;  we  hear  a  mother's  or 
a  sister's  voice  again;  we  look  up  reverently  to  a  father's  eye; 
we  recognise  all  the  faces  and  forms  that  then  encircled  us ; 
we  gather  to  the  same  table,  lie  down  in  the  same  chamber, 
and  go  forth  to  daily  sports  in  the  well-known  walks  and 
shades.  We  are  sure  that  we  were  happy  in  those  days,  and 
not  the  less  so  because  then  unconscious  of  any  peculiar  hap 
piness  ;  and  we  are  sure  that  whatever  may  be  our  present 
store,  that  treasure  cannot  be  ours  again.  But  this  is  not  all. 

20 


230  RETROSPECTION. 

A  part  of  that  early  enjoyment  grew  out  of  our  ignorant  and 
untried  state.  Since  that  time,  we  have  necessarily  become 
disciples  in  that  department,  of  which  it  may  be  truly  said, 
that  "  he  that  increaseth  knowledge,  increaseth  sorrow."  Ac 
quaintance  with  the  world  shows  us  that  it  is  indeed  a  fallen 
world.  By  painful  contact  with  the  human  heart,  we  find  it 
to  be  as  imperfect  and  prone  to  evil  as  the  Scriptures  taught 
us  to  suppose.  Melancholy,  indeed,  it  is  to  learn,  by  trial,  the 
selfishness,  malignity,  insincerity,  and  earthliness  of  mankind. 
While  learning  this  lesson  concerning  others,  have  we  not 
learned  it  of  ourselves  also,  and  from  time  to  time  furnished 
new  reasons  for  the  same  painful  conviction?  Childhood, 
though  not  by  any  means  a  sinless  state,  as  some  fondly  re 
present  it,  is  yet,  in  comparison  with  after  life,  the  season  of 
innocence.  Let  a  man  of  the  world  remember  what  he  was 
before  his  judgment  was  perverted  and  his  affections  were 
spoiled  or  withered,  when  passion  had  not  consumed  his  heart 
and  excesses  had  not  seared  his  conscience,  and  then  let  him 
turn  to  his  present  self,  if  he  can,  without  a  melancholy  con 
viction  of  his  degeneracy.  Even  spiritual  renovation  does  not 
utterly  extinguish  all  the  unhallowed  fires  that  have  before 
been  kindled  in  the  soul.  How  many  evil  tendencies,  how 
many  pernicious  habits  of  thought  and  feeling,  still  cling  to  the 
Christian  disciple,  like  shreds  of  a  cast-off  garment  which  he 
wore  too  long.  Moral  evil  accumulates  with  years,  increasing 
burdens  on  the  memory.  Its  stain  easily  spreads  over  the 
whole  man.  His  spiritual  enemies,  when  they  have  been  long 
in  possession  of  him,  tyrannize  the  more  dreadfully,  and  even 
if  vanquished,  they  persist  in  the  more  obstinate  struggle  for 
their  old  ascendency.  On  the  other  hand,  a  child  is  hardly 
conscious  of  even  those  seeds  of  evil  that  are  already  germi- 


RETROSPECTION.  231 

nating  in  his  own  mind.  Their  development  goes  on,  often 
with  startling  rapidity,  till  it  can  be  no  longer  hidden  from 
himself  nor  mistaken,  and  though  it  be  checked  arid  counter 
acted  by  the  most  favourable  domestic  and  religious  influences, 
he  cannot  become  a  man  without  some  painful  acquisitions  of 
self-knowledge.  After  such  experience,  he  is  compelled  some 
times  not  only  to  reproach  himself  for  his  delinquencies,  but  to 
think  of  his  early  days  as  on  the  whole  his  best  days.  Thus 
it  is,  that  apart  from  the  calamitous  changes  which  leave 
some  men  broken-hearted  mourners  over  prosperity  lost,  but 
never  to  be  forgotten,  \ve  all  find  something  of  melancholy 
regret  inseparable  from  the  review  of  life. 

Along  with  such  recollections,  a  good  man  often  finds  in  his 
own  history  another  and  a  peculiar  occasion  for  regret.  As 
a  spiritual  being,  who  has  begun  to  live  according  to  his  con 
science  and  the  divine  testimonies,  he  not  only  anticipates  for 
himself  hereafter  a  satisfaction  which  outward  and  sensible 
things  alone  cannot  give,  but  already  experiences  in  some 
degree  a  kind  of  enjoyment,  which  corresponds  to  what  he  is 
expecting.  This  too,  is  at  times  impaired,  and  even  wholly 
suspended,  if  not  ultimately  lost.  He  recalls,  not  without  self- 
reproach,  the  more  prosperous  seasons  in  his  religious  history. 
And  not  unfrequently  the  two  kinds  of  adversity — the  one 
relating  to  the  body,  the  other  to  the  soul — come  together, 
each  making  the  other  felt  the  more  acutely.  Living  with 
higher  aims  and  habits  of  deeper  reflection  than  common 
men,  he  has  learned  more  of  his  own  heart,  and  such  know 
ledge  of  itself  leads  to  an  unpleasant  comparison  between  the 
earlier  stages  of  his  Christian  life  and  the  present.  His  former 
faith  in  the  promises  of  God,  and  delight  in  all  His  testimonies, 
the  satisfaction  he  once  found  in  prayer,  his  cheerfulness  in  all 


232  RETROSPECTION. 

religious  duties,  his  complacency  in  Christian  ordinances  and 
fellowship  and  efforts,  his  peace  of  conscience,  and  serene 
hope  of  usefulness  and  of  heaven,— these  were  the  treasures 
of  his  soul,  but  where  are  they  now  ? 

Let  us  remind  ourselves,  however,  that  mere  regret  in  view 
of  the  past  is  unreasonable.     It  is  not  in  our  power  always  to 
forget  lost  good,  nor  would  it  be  desirable ;  but  we  may  render 
such  recollections  less  painful  than  they  often  are,  and  better 
than  a  melancholy  pleasure,  by  subjecting  them  to  a  wise 
regard  for  our  present  and  future  advantage.     Regret  alone  is 
unreasonable.     It  puts  a  false  estimate  on  the  past.     Memory, 
like  hope,  is  commonly  delusive.     The  past,  though  clearly 
remembered,  like  the  future  when  most  clearly  anticipated,  is 
but  partially  considered.     Its  pleasures  are  vividly  recalled, 
while  its  pains  are  forgotten.    The  evils  we  then  felt  have  faded 
from  our  view,  while  its  enjoyments  are  in  some  degree  exagge 
rated.     The  complaints  once  made  are  forgotten;  but  they  are 
really  transferred  to  our  existing  condition.     That  must  be  a 
mistaken  estimate  of  good  and  evil  which  makes  men  always 
dissatisfied  with  the  present,  because  they  are  disconsolate  for 
the  past  or  sanguine  for  the  future.     Such  discontent,  in  con 
nexion  with  hope,  is  expressed  in  the  saying,  "  Man  never  is, 
but  always  to  be,  blest."     He  is  not  less  unreasonable,  if  he 
never  is,  but  always  has  been,  blest.     That  is  a  loose  reckon 
ing  which  makes  happiness  past,  always  greater  than  present 
happiness.      If  the  past  could  be  restored,  it  would  not  be 
what  we  imagine;  but  even  if  our  estimate  were  just,  every 
longing  is  here  ineffectual.     Tears  cannot  revive  the  faded 
flowers  of  past  years.     Others  may  spring  up,  but  these  have 
no  resurrection.     In  the  meantime,  regret  alone  is  worse  than 
unavailing.     It  disqualifies  us  for  the  successful  discharge  of 


RETROSPECTION.  233 

our  present  duties.  This  hour  is  overlooked  in  contemplation 
of  the  past,  and  its  peculiar  blessings  are  not  adequately 
sought.  Idle  wishes  enervate  the  spirit.  Discontent  takes 
the  place  of  a  calm  and  thankful  industry.  No  loss  is  re 
paired,  no  enterprise  is  attempted,  no  new  advantage  is  se 
cured.  The  unhappy  man  who  has  fallen  into  this  condition, 
comes  to  look  only  with  a  discoloured  eye  on  the  present  hap 
piness  of  others.  In  a  misanthropic,  owlish  singularity,  he 
keeps  himself  aloof  from  their  sanguine  enterprises  and  expec 
tations.  The  most  cheerful  auspices  he  darkens  by  his  fore 
bodings.  It  is  well  if  he  has  not  to  struggle  also  with  a 
secret  disaffection  towards  the  providence  of  God. 

But  such  a  faculty  is  not  given  to  us  without  a  reason :  it 
must  be  capable  of  a  salutary  use.  We  are  made  to  remem 
ber  what  we  have  been,  and  done,  and  enjoyed  or  suffered,  not 
that  it  may  awaken  fruitless  or  mischievous  regrets,  any  more 
than  to  nourish  pride  and  presumption ;  but  that  the  past  may 
qualify  us  for  the  present  arid  the  future.  It  may  afford  us 
two  kinds  of  instruction. 

We  may  learn  something  of  the  providence  of  God.  Our 
course  has  been  under  His  eye,  our  circumstances  have  been 
ordered  by  His  will.  If  we  have  ever  known  prosperity, 
though  now  it  is  past  beyond  recovery,  yet  it  has  been  ours, 
and  let  us  mark  it  as  His  bounty.  If  we  have  known  calamity, 
it  has  fallen,  and  not  the  less  if  heavily,  by  His  permission :  let 
us  mark  it,  therefore,  as  His  chastisement.  We  shall  need 
severer  corrections  if  we  fail  to  notice  those  He  has  already 
administered,  and  we  turn  His  very  kindness  against  ourselves, 
if  we  do  not  thank  Him  for  its  past  displays.  Let  us  mark  His 
hand  supporting,  defending,  leading  us  hitherto,  and  restraining 
us  also,  when  but  for  such  restraint  we  had  injured  or  even  de- 

20* 


234  RETROSPECTION. 

stroyed  ourselves.  In  the  temper  of  His  inspired  servants,  let 
us  adore  Him  who  has  "  not  rewarded  us  according  to  our 
iniquities/'  but  borne  with  and  cared  for  us  in  unmerited  kind 
ness  to  this  hour.  Whatever  may  be  our  present  circum 
stances,  the  thought  of  the  past  should  suffice  to  prompt  the 
grateful  inquiry,  "  What  shall  I  render  unto  the  Lord  for  all 
His  benefits  toward  me'f" 

While  we  study  the  providence  of  God,  let  us  mark  also 
our  own  errors  and  sins,  that  we  may  guard  ourselves 
and  others  against  the  like  hereafter.  We  are  more  im 
partial  observers  of  what  we  have  been  than  of  what  we 
are ;  and,  if  we  are  willing  to  learn  the  lesson,  our  own 
recollections  will  show  us  not  only  something  of  our  gene 
ral  imperfection,  but  the  more  prominent  deformities  of  our 
hearts  and  lives.  It  is  our  own  fault  if  we  do  not  thus  become 
acquainted  with  our  delinquencies  and  our  wants.  To  know 
our  faults,  in  order  that  we  may  confess  them  and  repent  of 
them  before  God ;  to  know  our  chief  infirmities,  that  we  may 
avail  ourselves  of  every  proffered  aid  against  them ;  to  know 
our  mistakes,  that  we  may  rectify  them  ;  to  know  clearly,  as 
we  may  by  experience,  all  our  deficiencies,  that  they  may  be 
henceforth  supplied, — this  surely  is  a  part  of  practical  wisdom, 
and  such  wisdom  we  may  gather  from  the  past. 

Every  retrospect  of  life  may  suggest  to  us  the  great  fact  so 
solemnly  presented  in  the  word  of  inspiration,  that  we  are 
continually  preparing  materials  for  our  own  subsequent  re 
view.  "  Whatsoever  a  man  soweth,  that  shall  he  also  reap ;" 
and,  in  more  senses  than  one,  human  life  speedily  confirms  the 
declaration.  Time  wasted,  talents  misapplied  or  disused,  ad 
vantages  forfeited,  influence  perverted, — these  things,  when 
they  come  to  be  remembered,  not  only  overshadow  the  mind 
with  a  gloomy  sense  of  loss,  but  oppress  the  heart  with  the 


RETROSPECTION.  235 


conviction  of  folly,  ingratitude,  and  wilfulness.  Conscience 
pronounces  a  clearer  judgment  on  the  past  than  on  the  pre 
sent.  When  the  present  shall  be  added  to  the  past,  its  negli 
gences  and  abuses  will  aggravate  the  burden  before  resting  on 
the  memory.  Especially  we  would  have  our  young  readers 
consider,  that  they  will  afterwards  review  this  present  period 
of  their  lives,  and  that  it  depends  on  their  use  of  it  whether  the 
remembrance  will  give  them  anything  but  grief  and  shame. 
The  pleasantest  thing  for  you  to  remember  in  after  life,  will  be 
your  doing  your  duty  and  following  the  Saviour  now. 

The  day  of  judgment,  revealed  in  the  Sacred  Scriptures, 
will  be  a  season  of  retrospection.     Every  faculty  possessed 
in  this  life,  and  every  advantage  here  put  within  our  reach, 
will  be  recollected,  along  with  our  treatment  of  them.     All 
men  will   be  compelled   to   acknowledge   the  whole   bounty 
that  God  has  bestowed  on  them  in  this  world,  and  not  the 
less  if  they    shall  have  forgotten   or  abused  it.     They  will 
read  the  account  of  His  dealings  with  them,  whatever  may 
be  their  answer.     Above  all  other  good,  every  man  will  re 
member  his  opportunities  of  serving  his  Maker,  and  of  pre 
paring  himself  and  others  for  immortality.     We  shall  then 
review  not  only  the  numberless  blessings  of  the  Divine  Provi 
dence,  but  the  offered  grace  of  the  Gospel.     Every  means  of 
spiritual  improvement,  the  Bible,  the  Sabbath,  the  house  of 
prayer,  Christian  friends,  the  persuasions  of  the  Divine  Spirit 
in  the  soul,  will  be  past  good  remembered.     And  through  all 
these  means  the  Saviour  of  sinners  will  be  seen,  as  received  or 
rejected  by  ourselves,  while  we  shall  answer  to  Him  as  our 
Judge.     For  that  review  let  every  other  be  preparatory ;  and 
when  the  mirror  of  our  life  shall  then  be  fairly  held  before  us, 
may  we  meet  the  reflection  it  will  give,  without  "  confusion  of 
face." 


OLD    A  GE. 

BY  THE  EDITOR. 

How  does  the  startled  heart  of  youth  revolt  at  the  bare 
mention  of  Old  Age  ! 

Why  should  it  thus  revolt  ?  When  man  has  garnered  up 
the  fruits  of  knowledge  and  experience,  and  dotted  his  path 
way  with  good  deeds,  which  still  shed  their  starry  light  around 
him,  his  last  days  may  be  his  best  days — a  quiet  resting-place 
— a  hill-top  between  Time  and  Eternity,  where  he  may  set 
up  a  solemn  and  grateful  memorial,  bearing  the  inscription, 
"  Hitherto  the  Lord  hath  helped  me." 

From  this  eminence,  he  sees  the  ladder  which  reaches  from 
Earth  to  Heaven,  and  the  angels  upon  it  are  his  own  loved 
ones,  who  have  gone  a  little  while  before  him  to  that  blessed 
world.  Their  sweet,  familiar  smiles  give  him  the  assurance 
that  he  will  be  no  stranger  there.  Some  among  them,  guided 
his  youthful  footsteps  in  the  paths  of  wisdom  and  virtue ; 
others  were  led  by  his  example  into  the  "  narrow  way" 
which  has  terminated  in  that  holy  home. 

The  world  where  he  is  required  to  remain  a  little  longer,  is 
God's  beautiful  world.  For  the  gray  pilgrim,  there  are  still 


11,  ID) 


OLD   AGE.  237 

oases,  bright  with  living  waters,  and  cool  with  refreshing 
shade.  He  has  the  chart  of  inspiration  to  guide  him  safely  to 
the  end  of  his  pilgrimage.  God  "  giveth  his  beloved  sleep," 
and  there  are  "  songs  in  the  night,"  for  those  who  watch  for 
the  dawn. 

My  thoughts  revert  to  one  who  was  so  lovely  in  her  "  age's 
lateness,"  as  almost  to  reconcile  the  gayest  in  the  heyday  of 
life  to  that  dreaded  period,  could  they  then  be  like— grand 
mother. 

Though  time  had  furrowed  her  cheek,  blanched  her  soft, 
glossy  hair,  and  dimmed  the  lustre  of  her  dark  eye,  there  was 
still  beauty  in  her  countenance — the  serene  beauty  of  the  soul, 
shining  through  the  decaying  tenement. 

Illness  had,  for  many  years,  given  her  a  peculiar  claim 
upon  the  care  and  tenderness  of  her  family,  but  after  life's 
allotted  term  of  threescore  and  ten,  health  smiled  upon  ten 
other  added  years.  The  sorrows  which  her  Heavenly  Father 
deemed  essential  for  her  discipline,  had  nearly  passed  away ; 
a  rainbow  brightly  spanned  the  retreating  clouds,  and  she 
rejoiced  in  that  token  of  His  covenant,  assuring  her  of  the 
rising  of  the  Sun  of  Righteousness— a  glorious  immortality. 

The  law  of  kindness  was  ever  on  her  lips,  springing  sponta 
neous  from  the  law  of  her  life.  Love  was  that  law,  and  its 
outward  manifestation,  kindness,  was  exhibited  towards  every 
living  thing  which  came  in  her  daily  pathway. 

Her  affection  for  children  was  a  well-spring  of  delight,  un- 
chilled  by  the  frosts  of  age,  and  their  warm,  young  hearts  re 
sponded  to  this  affection.  She  entered  into  their  guileless 
sports  with  interest,  and  aided  the  little  ones  who  clustered 
around  her  in  all  their  innocent  amusements.  As  the  boy 
said,  when  invited  to  see  some  fine  spectacle,  that  "  he  could 


238  OLD  AGE. 

not  half  see  without  grandfather,"  so  her  little  visitors  could 
not  half  play,  without  the  approving  smile  of  their  grand 
mother.  The  devoted  love  of  these  grandchildren,  neither 
absence,  distance,  nor  intercourse  with  the  world,  ever 
abated.  On  their  return  home,  the  first  thought  was  of  the 
parental  roof — the  almost  simultaneous  one,  of  the  beloved  old 
mansion  of  their  venerated  grandmother. 

To  the  poor,  the  mourner,  and  the  widow,  she  was  the  true 
and  sympathizing  friend.  Her  simple,  unpretending  kindness 
won  its  way  to  the  grieved  and  over-burdened  heart.  Bad 
indeed  must  have  been  that  heart  which  did  not  render  to  her 
the  tribute  of  gratitude.  Even  her  rebukes  were  so  tempered 
with  kindness,  that  they  conveyed  a  healing  balm  for  the 
wounds  they  inflicted. 

Next  to  her  kindness,  humility  was  the  leading  trait  in  her 
saint-like  character.  The  "  troops  of  friends,"  who  gathered 
around  her  old  age,  were  of  all  classes  in  society.  Though  her 
self,  in  every  sense,  a  lady,  she  seemed,  as  life  was  drawing  to 
wards  its  close,  to  forget  all  merely  conventional,  worldly  dis 
tinctions.  In  obedience  to  the  injunction  of  her  Divine  Master, 
she  called  in  the  poor  of  God's  household,  to  partake  with  her  in 
the  bounties  which  He  had  dispensed  to  her.  Even  her  neat  but 
plain  attire  presented  no  strong  contrast  with  the  more  humble 
garb  of  those  who  thus  sat  at  her  hospitable  table.  No  conde 
scension  of  manner  on  her  part,  ever  aroused  the  natural,  sinful 
pride  of  the  human  heart.  This  sweet  humility  was  blended 
with  a  meekness  so  genuine,  that  even  the  passionate  became 
gentle  in  her  presence.  It  was  said  of  her  truly  "  she  never 
had  an  enemy." 

Her  cheerfulness  was  greatly  promoted  throughout  her  long 
life,  by  her  love  for  flowers.  During  the  very  last  year  of  her 


OLD  AGE.  239 

life,  she  spent  many  hours  of  healthful  recreation  in  her  garden. 
The  particular  flowers  which  she  had  loved  in  youth  were  still 
her  favourites,  fondly  cherished  in  her  declining  years.  Her 
petted  roses,  gilly-flowers,  and  geraniums  were  renewed  each 
year — for  her  grandchildren  prized  highly  the  plants  which 
she  reared — and  as  she  parted  with  them,  from  time  to  time, 
others  took  their  places,  and  bloomed  beneath  her  nursing 
care.  Some  of  them  were  fresh  and  beautiful  in  her  apart 
ment  when  the  hand  which  planted  them  grew  cold  in  death. 

Another  striking  characteristic  of  this  aged  saint  was  her 
childlike  faith  in  God.  This  faith  was  strengthened  and  con 
firmed  in  her  latest  years.  The  Saviour  whom  she  had  so 
long  trusted,  she  now  leaned  upon  with  a  more  firm  and  happy 
reliance.  How  devout  and  meek  was  her  attention,  while  with 
folded  hands  she  listened  to  the  reading  of  God's  Holy  Book ! 
Her  voice  continued  to  join  in  singing  His  praises,  although 
the  notes  which  joyfully  fell  from  her  lips  were  feeble  and  tre 
mulous.  Reverently  she  bent  her  aged  form  in  prayer,  and 
poured  forth  her  earnest  soul  in  pure  devotion,  in  that  blessed 
spot,  hallowed  by  these  remembrances. 

In  her  death  there  was  no  triumph,  no  exultation.  The 
meekness  and  humility  which  had  been  so  strikingly  exhibited 
throughout  her  long  life,  were  conspicuous  at  its  peaceful 
close. 

She  fell  asleep  in  Jesus,  with  a  hope,  full  of  immortality. 


'There  remaineth  a  rest  to  the  people  of  God.' 


HEB.  iv.  9. 


LIFE — our  term  of  mortal  years, 
Life — whose  exponent  is  breath, 

Life — the  soul's  career  on  earth, 
For  ever  terminate  in  Death. 

Life — the  essence  of  the  soul, 
Life — of  second-birth  the  test, 

These  in  triumph  pass  through  Death 
To  Life  with  God— Eternal  Rest. 


I  Nil    MIMKOU 


RETURN  TO  DESK  FROM  WHICH  BORROWED 

LOAN  DEPT. 

This  book  is  due  on  the  last  date  stamped  below  or 

on  the  date  to  which  renewed. 
Renewed  books  are  subject  to  immediate  recall. 


—  ,  — 

Aim/    1  ri  

DV  J  u  1959 

1M**61PM 

KEC  U  LD 

FEi^  1  5  196? 

r        16|/|AP961^0 

REC'D  LD 

WAY  311961 

•ttca    JM    -? 

LD  21A-50m-4,'59                                        General  Library 
(A1724slO)476B                                  University  of  California 

Berkeley 


•4sS^ 


llilll-' 


